


This is the Place

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_bigbang, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer's cage isn't built for Lucifer's vessel, and Sam is ejected from Hell before Dean leaves Stull Cemetery in Lawrence. But it's been hours for Dean, and days for Sam, and Sam didn't get out before the demons got their barbs into him. Dean's done fighting, and all he wants now is to keep Sam safe, and damn the consequences. When Bobby tells them they'd better lay low for a while, Dean takes the opportunity to let his brother rest and heal. And maybe figure out what Sam's wanted all his life, and what Dean needs to be happy. (AU for the end of 5x22 and beyond)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/profile)[**anyothergirl415**](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/)
> 
> written for the 2010 [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_j2_bigbang/profile)[**spn_j2_bigbang**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_j2_bigbang/) challenge.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Non-permanent character injury.  
>  **Enticements:** Rampant hurt/comfort, graphic sex, small amounts of angst, domesticity/curtain!fic.  
>  Many thanks, for starters, to my unbeatable beta, [](http://andreth47.livejournal.com/profile)[**andreth47**](http://andreth47.livejournal.com/), who looked over numerous drafts and always found something new to improve. She also talked me through a short period of panicking over quality and readability of this fic, and I really owe her. Thank you so much, bb!
> 
> Also, thanks a million to my awesome partner, [](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/profile)[**anyothergirl415**](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/) for her incredible art. Right away I was excited to be working with her, thrilled that she had picked me-- _me_ of all people!—and rolled with the punches, even when I said, "What if I wrote a different fic altogether?" You rock, Brie.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://wendy.livejournal.com/profile)[**wendy**](http://wendy.livejournal.com/) and [](http://thehighwaywoman.livejournal.com/profile)[**thehighwaywoman**](http://thehighwaywoman.livejournal.com/) for not letting me write that different fic, and for running a great challenge. Thank you both for being such amazing mods!
> 
> And thanks to Zeke, who kept me company the whole time, even if he pretended he didn't care. I love you, babykitty. :D

[PDF Version for Download](http://www.box.net/shared/d7v70yipnj) | [Art and Soundtrack](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/367454.html?format=light)

 _  
**This is the Place, Part One**   
_

____spacer____

  
When Lucifer disappeared out of the room in Detroit wearing his brother, Dean had failed.

Sam was _gone_.

He'd trusted Sam to do this, and Sam was not in control, and now Dean had let Lucifer walk out of there to do whatever he wanted.

Sam was still _in there._

Dean put his hands to his head, cradling the headache that was forming simply by virtue of his being utterly overwhelmed. There were tears in his eyes.

 _Sam was gone._

The drive took twelve hours. Dean had to stop for gas, and he cursed every tick of the meter as he stood there, huddled down in his jacket, trying to make it go faster by sheer force of will.

 _Sam was still in there._

____spacer____

  
He was right, too. Bleeding out of his mouth and nose, face beaten to hell by Sam's fists, he heard himself saying, "I'm not going to leave you," over and over, trying to get Sammy to hear him. Cas and Bobby lay dead twenty feet away, and Dean kept saying it.

 _I'm not going to leave you._

And then Sam's face was clearing, and Dean saw Sam again--Sam as the man who'd made the decision, and Sam as the kid Dean had raised almost on his own--Sam as the one Dean had taught everything he knew, watched him walk away and dragged him back again--Sam as the brother he'd fought with and fought beside and protected and loved with every fiber of his being.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said, putting up his hand—to keep Dean away from him, or the other way around—"It's okay. I got him."

Dean wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him. Wanted to hold his brother's hand, wanted to hug him and tell him he loved him and they'd make it all better, but Adam was there. And Sam opened the gate and dragged Michael down with him, and it was over.

____spacer____

  
He stayed in Stull Cemetery until it grew dark, long after Cas and Bobby had left, kneeling on the patch of bare ground with his head in his hands. He couldn't even cry, couldn't remember how. It was almost like staring at Sam's dead body after Cold Oak, but Sam wasn't even there.

He had to get up. Had to get to his feet and walk to the car, start it up and drive out of here. He'd promised. He'd promised Sam he'd go, find Lisa, and live.

He'd die for Sam, a thousand times over, and Sam knew it. But Sam wanted him to live for him, and Dean wasn't sure if he could. Inside his chest where he was sure his heart was supposed to be, Dean felt nothing, just a wide, empty, Sam-shaped space that would never heal.

____spacer____

  
Dean stood up. His knees protested and his back cracked, and he was way too young to be feeling stiff and sore like this, even after Cas's magic healing fingers. He rounded the car and opened her driver side door and slid in, and caught sight of the paper soda cup Sam had left in the passenger foot well, goddamn it.

The car smelled like them, like it always did: sweat and gun oil and Sam's girly shampoo and Dean's gel; stale chips and spilled Coke and spilled blood. Dean's throat closed, and he gripped the steering wheel, knuckles going white under the pressure. Sam's backpack was still in his seat: the demonology books, paperback novel, long-suffering laptop, all visible thanks to the broken zipper. There was half a chocolate bar stuffed in the front pocket, wrapper crinkling when Dean pulled it out to stare at it. It was just a Hershey's bar, but Sam always ate half and saved the other half for later, like they weren't going to stop at another gas station or something.

It was soft from sitting in the car and it bent under Dean's closing fingers. He shoved it back in the pocket and turned away, digging the car keys out of his jacket and jamming them into the ignition. The car squealed in protest when he turned it too hard and then grumbled to life.

He wondered if he could find a liquor store near a motel before he headed off to Lisa's, but then he figured if he didn't go now he'd never make it.

He wondered if Sam would be angry if he just ended it all right now, ate a bullet right here.

He wondered if he'd end up in Hell with him, and whether that would be preferable to Heaven without him.

The grumbling grew louder, working up to a roar, and Dean let go of the keys and the wheel, staring down. He could feel his baby purring underneath him, nice and normal, and still the noise rose, like an earthquake approaching.

Then the sound of rolling, groaning earth was overpowered by a rushing, sucking sound, and there was an ugly flash of light from the spot where Sam had vanished.

Blinded, Dean clambered out of the car again, holding his hands out and feeling his way around the front. He tripped and went to his knees and crawled, and then his hands were wet and the ground was wet and his knees were wet, and then he was coming up against a warm, familiar body.

"Oh Jesus, Sam?" Dean asked, voice cracking, stuck in his throat. He tried again, and heard a groan in answer.

"Dean?"

"Sammy? Is that you? Jesus Christ, tell me it's you, don't--"

"It's me," Sam said, and Dean could see him now, looking worse for wear than he'd made Dean, face swollen and body bleeding. "It's me. I swear to god. Dean. Dean."

Dean kept moving, working his way up Sam's body, and Sam lifted his hand, blood streaming down his wrist, to grab Dean's shoulder. Dean curled his fingers around the back of Sam's neck and Sam moaned in pain, and Dean buried his face in Sam's shirt, also soaked.

"It's me," Sam whispered again, reassuring him, and Dean sobbed like an idiot, trying to regain his bearings.

"What the fuck, Sammy?" he asked.

"Didn't fit," Sam said, and Dean realized he was losing consciousness, voice fading. "Didn't fit. Had to come out."

"Sam?"

"Hospital?" Sam replied, and he went limp.

Dean could feel Sam's heart beating as he dragged his brother off the ground, pumping out his lifeblood all over Dean's hands and shirt. He maneuvered Sam into the back of the car and threw himself in the front, slamming the doors shut as he peeled out of the cemetery.

He had to go back to Lawrence. It was the closest, and he sure as fuck didn't want to spend any more time in this goddamn town, but he had to at least get a look at Sam, and he wasn't going to waste time on a motel now.

"What did they do to you?" he muttered, taking a corner sharply and wincing at the sound of Sam's body sliding in the back. "Shit."

He left the Impala in the no-parking zone at the ER dock, and hauled Sam out of the back. He felt the blood draining out of his face as he saw Sam, in the light now, chest sliced to ribbons and body broken. He'd been in Hell fr hours, and that could mean any length of time down there; someone certainly had had time to take out their frustration.

Sam was a deadweight, but Dean carried him, adrenaline surging, through the doors. The nurse at the desk looked up and Dean saw her eyes go wide with shock.

"I need some help here," he yelled, and realized he was shaking. Two nurses had a gurney in front of him and he laid Sam down as gently as he could, trying not to gag as he took in how much blood there was, how Sam's limbs were not supposed to lie at those angles, how ashy pale Sam's face was. If he hadn't heard Sam's voice already, he'd be sure he was dead again.

"What happened?" a nurse asked, pushing past him to get her hands on the stretcher. Dean followed them down the hallway.

"An accident," Dean said, not able to take his eyes off Sam. It was so much worse than he'd thought--how had Sam even managed to get a word out? He caught Sam's hand in his own and realized half of Sam's littlest finger was missing. That wasn't an injury you got in an accident.

They were pushing Dean away, and Dean held on tighter, hand slipping in Sam's blood.

"He's my brother," he said, raising his voice. "He's my brother, wait, please."

They were approaching the OR doors. "Sir, please let go," one of the nurses said. "We'll do everything we can."

"I'm not leaving you," Dean said, "Sammy, wait!"

There was a doctor then, standing in Dean's way, suited up like he was ready for a zombie attack or some shit. It stopped Dean in his tracks, and the doctor held up his hands, palm out, blue plastic gloves.

"Sir," he said, strange and half-muffled behind the mask, "We are going to do everything we can to help your friend."

"Brother," Dean corrected, like it was the only word he knew how to say.

"Can you tell me what happened?" the doctor directed, ignoring it.

"Accident," Dean said stupidly. He couldn't think of anything else, his whole mind occupied now with keeping Sam in his sights. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"We're going to do our best," the doctor said.

In other words, no, Dean thought, mind going flat. Sam was going to die of his injuries, and Dean was going to live, and the world was still not going to end. Sam was going to be ripped out of Dean's hands again-- _again_ \--and Dean couldn't do a thing about it.

"Car accident?" the doctor prompted.

Dean shook his head, and then nodded. "No. I mean. Hit by a car. I think."

The doctor nodded. Apparently vague half-stories were all he wanted, really just so he could keep Dean occupied while they cut Sam's clothes off him and put a mask over his face and clipped a heart rate monitor to his finger.

Dean shook another nurse off his arm and tried to get past the doctor's shoulder, into the OR, but the doctor stopped him again. "Sir, we don't want to have to call security, please. We are doing our best, but you need to let us work." He glanced back through the circular window on the swinging door, at Dean's brother, dying on a stretcher. "I promise," he said, looking back at Dean. "We're doing everything we can right now."

Dean didn't need to get checked out by the triage nurses. He deflected as firmly as he dared for as long as he could, assuring them that the blood on his clothes was just Sam's. It was, too, except for the spill down the front which had come from his own face when Lucifer had decided to show Dean what for, but all the rest of the evidence of that was gone, and they ushered Dean into the bathroom to wash Sam's blood off his hands.

Sam was in surgery for almost six hours. Dean was escorted from the ER lobby to the OR waiting room after two, and he spent half of the other four sitting in the plastic chairs, or pacing the room with his hand over his mouth. He called Bobby, got the voicemail, called again. Twice. Left a message: "Bobby, it's about Sam. Call me."

He drank four cups of burned hospital coffee and turned away two offers from a nurse to show him to the cafeteria where he could find something to eat. Finally the nurse came back with a sandwich and forced it into his hands. He ate it without tasting it, wiped his hands on his t-shirt that was still tacky with dried blood, and went back to measuring the length of the room with his steps.

For half an hour in the middle, Dean came to his senses and went out to find a florist in a grocery store, where he bought fresh basil and angelica, thistle and caraway and cinnamon, and a bag of salt. He emptied out his wallet and ended up paying the last two dollars fifty in change.

He needed a shower, was worn out and running on fumes. He stared at the OR doors like maybe glaring hard enough could open them up and bring Sam out on his own two feet, and soon his head hurt and his back ached from sitting and he was probably going to pass out from exhaustion.

He bit his fingernails down to the skin, made his cuticles bleed, clenched his hands into fists to stop himself. Drank another cup of coffee and tried to get the nurse at the desk to give him an update. Couldn't even manage enough energy to flirt with her. Didn't care.

"Please, he's been in there for hours." Having Sam out of his sight was becoming physically painful, like the months they'd split up, when he'd known Sam was somewhere and couldn't find him, couldn't get to him, couldn't make himself call.

"I'm sorry, Mr…"

"Derringer," Dean said automatically, remembering the name on the card. The one that matched Sam's.

"Mr. Derringer," she went on, "I know how important this is, but I haven't had an update on your brother since the last time we spoke."

An hour ago, give or take. Dean scrubbed his hands across his face, pressing the heels into his eyes, seeing a lattice of blood vessels behind his lids.

"Mr. Derringer?" a voice said behind him, and then he was allowed to see Sam.

____spacer____

  
Seeing Sam in the ICU bed, covered in plaster and blood-tinged bandages, tube down his throat, was worse than seeing his own body that way.

Dean stopped dead in the doorway, closing his eyes. He heard the doctor make a quiet, sympathetic noise behind him, clearing her throat, and Dean took another step into the room.

"Your brother is in critical condition," the doctor started, and Dean promptly tuned her out. He could see that, for fuck's sake. Automatically, Dean cataloged the damage: both legs broken, concussion, half of his right pinkie gone for good. Half of Sam's face was wrapped in gauze, over his left eye and around his ear. Dean saw lines of stitching under his hospital gown, across his chest, up to the edge of his tattoo. The lines of the ink were broken, burned away, and Dean thought, _Gonna have to get that fixed._

Once the doctor disappeared with a murmur of, "… leave you alone for a moment," Dean tore his eyes away from the still figure on the bed and looked around the room for anything he could find to ward it. The pen from Sam's chart wasn't worth much-couldn't draw a devil's trap on the floor-but there were places he could lay the herbs without drawing the attention of the cleaning crew. He busied himself with that, looking at Sam over his shoulder every couple of seconds, like he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to have this. Even in critical condition, he was still Sam, and that was what mattered.

Finally he approached the bed, taking in Sam again. The skin around Sam's right eye was bruised, but intact, and Dean reached out to touch. His fingers tingled as they drew close, hovering helplessly over Sam's purpled cheekbone, and Sam's skin was warm and tender. He ghosted his thumb over the bruise and wondered again how long it had been for Sam.

A nurse appeared, popping in the doorway in her bubble-gum-teddy-bear shirt, and said, "Mr. Derringer, your brother will be out for a while. He's under some pretty heavy sedation. The better we can control the pain, you know, the sooner he'll be out of here."

Dean nodded, silent. What was she doing here? What did she want? He tried to make her leave by glaring at her, but she just smiled blithely.

"Are you from around here?"

"No," Dean said.

"There's a couple of hotels close by, if--"

"No," Dean said again, and she blinked.

"Sir," she started, but Dean shook his head.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I appreciate the offer to help, but I'm not going anywhere 'til he wakes up."

The nurse pursed her lips, not unkindly. Dean figured he looked just crazy enough to put it past her.

"Okay look," she said, "I see a lot of this, and I get it. Really I do. But, sir, you're covered in blood and god knows what--I don't think I've ever seen a stain that color, frankly--and I really recommend you find somewhere you can take a shower, maybe change your clothes, sleep for a bit. Dr. Andreas has put Mr. Derringer into a medically induced coma, and she won't be bringing him out of it for at least twenty four hours. We won't wake him up without you here."

Dean took a deep breath. He put his hands on his hips and turned away, eyes sliding over Sam's form, unable to look for too long. "How late can I stay?"

The nurse checked her watch. "An hour."

"Okay," Dean agreed.

When the nurse was gone again, Dean slid into the chair at the bedside. Sam's left hand was bandaged, and he had a heart-rate monitor clipped to his index finger, so Dean slid his hand under Sam's wrist instead. He turned Sam's hand over slowly, palm up, and he could feel Sam's pulse beating fast and steady in the hollow under his thumb. Dean looked up at his brother's half-covered face and tucked an errant curl of hair behind Sam's ear. Then he lifted Sam's hand and pressed his mouth to the inside of Sam's wrist, and he could feel his pulse all the better.

Somewhere he'd heard that your lips were more sensitive than your fingertips, and he'd known that it was true, but it had never mattered more than right now, feeling Sam's life secure, and knowing his soul was safe in there. Dean imagined he could feel it, pulsing like Sam's heartbeat, right under his skin.

When Sammy was little, Dean could get him to fall asleep in minutes just by stroking his hair, or rubbing the palm of his hand over Sam's back. Sam turned to Dean for hugs even when Dean was too old to think that was cool, and when Sam was at Stanford, Dean kept reaching out for someone who wasn't there, much longer than he should have.

He pressed his fingertips into the soft skin of Sam's wrist, tracing the edge of his big hand. Then up his arm, curve of his elbow, another bruise high on his shoulder. He touched the edge of it and Sam didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't fucking react.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, laying his cheek against Sam's palm. "What've I done?"

He stayed in Sam's room for forty five minutes, sitting beside him, almost motionless, listening to the slow whirr and click-hiss of the machine that kept Sam's lungs going, and it was hard to see his brother under all the packaging and wires.

Then he left the room, taking his coat, and tipped a little salute to the nurse, now behind the ICU desk. He took the elevator down to the first floor, switched elevators, and went back up to the floor above Sam's.

It was late--long past dinnertime, and the sandwich the nurse had forced on him hadn't lasted. Dean felt his stomach twisting, growling with hunger, but he ignored the discomfort and instead found his way through a door, down a hallway, and into a staff locker room.

He flicked on the lights-- _Save the Planet! Turn me off!_ \--and zigzagged his way through the maze of red metal lockers to the shower stalls. Dean stripped, throwing his blood-stained clothes in a pile on the shower floor, toeing off his boots and abandoning them at the corner of the stall.

The water came out hot, scalding hot, and ran red off his arms and down the drain. There wasn't any soap to be had, but he scrubbed dirt and sweat off his skin until it was flushing pink with the heat of the water and the hard pressure of his hands. He had to get back to Sam--Sam was waiting for him.

The water ran cold, and Dean turned it off. He dried with a towel monogrammed _M_ left on a bench, and swiped a set of scrubs from the clean laundry pile. He stuffed his old clothes (too bloody and dirty and wet now to be any use) into the trash can, and took the stairs back down to Sam's floor.

The nurse at the desk was the same as before, and Dean waited until she had turned around to check the whiteboard in the office behind her before he sidled past, silent on bare feet, carrying his near-ruined boots in one hand.

He closed the door to Sam's room behind him, still stealthy-quiet, the only noise now the hiss of the ventilator and the muted beep of the monitor. Sam's heart rate was 75--high for a resting rate, especially Sam's. Dean estimated he normally ran about 50 when he was on his stupid laptop looking up stupid hunts for his stupid big brother, but now he was in a state of heightened action, somewhere inside that falsely asleep body.

Dean eased into the seat beside Sam again, tucked his fingertips under the edge of Sam's side and laid his forehead against Sam's wrist, and was asleep in seconds.

He woke up once in the middle of the night to the hunger pains in his stomach, to see that there had been a tray of dinner left by the bed, and the nurse's initials on Sam's chart. She'd come in to check his vitals and come back with food, and left Dean alone. There was a slip of paper under the edge of the tray that said, _I'll charge you extra for a coma patient eating soup._

Dean ate gratefully, scarfing down the soup and gross hospital bread roll. Sam lay just as still as ever beside him, and as Dean set the tray aside and eased himself onto the edge of Sam's bed, taking Sam's hand back in his own, Dean wondered how they could've gotten to him so fast, and how the fuck he'd gotten back out.

He'd said he _didn't fit._ Maybe the cage was only built for one. Maybe Sam's soul was incompatible with the make-up of Lucifer's cage, vessel status be damned.

Still, someone had got their hooks into Sam, and their knives, and their heavy sticks. Dean was surprised he'd made it to the surface with his skin intact.

Maybe someone had pulled him out. A thank-you gift from somebody upstairs for sticking the Devil back where he belonged. Sam used to believe in God. Dean wondered if God believed in Sam.

Now he couldn't even ask Sam what had happened. Sam might not even know. But he couldn't find out either way, with Sam laid up like this, put into a coma to deal with the pain.

Dean shoved the food tray away with a rattle, suddenly angry. He thought about Sam, just yesterday, sitting on the hood of the Impala with a beer in his hand, long legs tucked up under him, making a decision. Dean wished he'd seen it sooner--the man Sam had turned into, the way Sam had always trusted him. He wished he'd given Sam the benefit of the doubt earlier, when he'd probably deserved it. Then maybe the first decision Sam could have made with Dean's true blessing wouldn't have had to be this one.

Sam slept on. Dean stared at him, shifting closer. He put his hand on Sam's leg under the blanket, mindful of the edge of his cast. Sam's legs were propped up to accommodate the casts, and that left Dean's hand high up on his thigh. It should've been weird, but it wasn't. Dean slid his hand up, over Sam's hip, across his stomach, very gently. The bandages on Sam's torso covered the ugly cuts, but Sam's stomach expanded gently as he breathed. It was almost like he was doing it himself. Dean lay his hand flat for a minute, and then he tilted forwards and tucked himself all along Sam's body, resting his head beside Sam's on the pillow, cradling Sam's injured arm against his chest. He fell asleep comforted by the smell of Sam--no sulfur or shampoo or hospital antiseptic--just Sam.

____spacer____

  
They didn't wake Sam up for two more days.

Dean didn't bother getting a motel room. The nurse, Carrie, was on the night shift every evening, and she him a wink and a obligatory warning that visiting hours were ending, and then ignored Dean until she had to come back to check on Sam.

"I really shouldn't be letting you do this," she said one evening, coming in when Dean was awake.

Dean crossed his arms, put his feet up on Sam's bed. He was wearing his third set of stolen scrubs and hospital issue slipper-socks, and he looked fucking ridiculous, but he wasn't about to leave. He'd rather look like a patient or a nutjob than be escorted out.

"Then why?"

Carrie regarded him for a long time, brow furrowing slightly. She sighed, put her hands on her hips. "Because I think this is all you got," she said, "and I don't feel like it's my place to take it away from you."

Dean's face remained mercifully impassive. She shrugged one shoulder, up and down.

"Anyway," she said, and left.

When they did wake Sam up, Dr. Andreas was there. Dean looked away as they shone a little flashlight into his eyes to check for responsiveness, and removed the breathing tube, nodding when Andreas said, "His throat might be sore for a while." Dean held Sam's hand and shoulder while a vaguely familiar nurse emptied a syringe into the IV drip, and he held his breath for what felt like minutes.

Sam's one visible eyelid fluttered, and he took in a slow, deeper breath.

"Sammy?"

Sam took another breath, and his fingers clenched in the sheet. Dean gripped his shoulder harder, grounding himself.

"Sam."

Sam coughed, body shaking, and grimaced in pain. Dean put his other hand to the middle of Sam's chest, very gently, mindful of the lacerations sewn up there.

"Sam, Sammy, it's me. It's Dean, man. Open your eyes, huh?"

Sam obeyed, one hazel eye opening. Dean watched him struggle to focus on their faces, and he tried to smile.

"Hey, Sammy. Hey."

Sam's mouth opened hesitantly, Dean watched his tongue flick out to wet his lips, and he rubbed his thumb into the soft spot below Sam's collarbone.

"Can you hear me? Gimmie something, here, man; you are such a stubborn pain in the ass."

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched, almost a smile, and Dean grinned.

"Atta boy, Sammy."

Dr. Andreas stepped in then, and Dean was content to just rub his thumb under the collar of Sam's hospital gown and watch his brother's face.

"Mr. Derringer," she said, and Sam's mouth twitched again. Little shit was smirking. "You were in an accident, do you remember?"

Sam's mouth turned down, eye clouding, and Dean shook his head.

"Trauma often does that," Andreas went on. "Not to worry. You're in excellent hands, now, and I'm confident at the moment. You seem to be improving as quickly as can be hoped. Your brother has been here the whole time, keeping an eye on you." She glanced at Dean, smiling, and Dean shrugged, embarrassed. "Don't try to move too much. You'll be kept hydrated, and we'll think about putting food in you soon, but… baby steps. How are you feeling?"

Sam's eye flicked up to Dean, and Dean tilted his head. Sam blinked slowly. Dean frowned. Sam's face was relaxed, but he looked a little bleary, a little uncomfortable.

"I think he's okay," Dean said. "In a little pain, maybe. Right Sam?"

Sam blinked again, only it looked more like he was winking, sharing a joke, and he licked his lips again.

"They've got you on some crazy stuff, dude," Dean said. "You thirsty?"

Sam closed his eye.

"Okay, buddy. No worries. Just take it easy, okay. I'll be right here."

Dr. Andreas touched his elbow. "Mr. Derringer, we'll come in to check on him in a few hours." She made a few notes on the chart, and then stuck it in the holder beside the door. "Looking good, though. Baby steps."

When she and the nurse were gone, Dean hauled the chair up beside Sam again, tucking his hand back against Sam's neck. "How you doin', Sam? You wanna sit up, or you okay?"

Sam turned his head slightly so he could see Dean better, and his cheek was soft against Dean's hand. Dean rubbed his thumb over the edge of his jaw, soothingly.

"Dean," Sam whispered, barely more than an exhale, his voice all rough and cracked.

Dean smiled, chest tightening, and tipped his head to the side. His eyes burned, and he blinked a few times.

"Jesus, Sam," he sighed, squeezing Sam's shoulder again.

Sam fell asleep ten minutes later, tired out from just staring at Dean as Dean told him about the nice nurse, and Dean slipped out to grab lunch.

____spacer____

  
After Sam woke up, Dean thought Carrie would get firmer about letting him stay. But instead she told her supervisor, and her supervisor told the whole night shift staff, and now everyone and their gaggle of nursing students knew Dean on sight, and left him and Sam alone. Dean slept some nights in the chair, and some nights with his head on Sam's bed by his hip, and once or twice nestled against Sam himself.

Sam had been lucid enough to roll his eyes at Dean's wincing and complaining about his stiff neck, shifted maybe an inch to the side, and patted the bed with his fingers. Dean was careful not to jostle him, and the bed was way too small for the two of them together, but he tucked his head in against Sam's shoulder, and Sam's hair tickled his face, and he fell asleep with Sam breathing in his ear.

He had to figure out where he was going to take Sam, as soon as he could. He didn't think anyone was coming after them-- they would've, by now, and Dean probably wouldn't have been able to stop them-- but he hated hospitals, and he hated seeing Sam in one. The minute they moved Sam out of the ICU, Dean was checking him out of there and heading up to South Dakota. The Impala was parked in the garage, slowly racking up a parking toll that Dean was not interested in paying, and Bobby was waiting to hear from them.

Finally he got word that they were thinking of moving Sam, considering his marked improvement, and then when they were actually moving him, Dean went down to the department's main desk.

"I'm checking out my brother, Sam Derringer," Dean said to the aide, and the guy pulled up Sam's chart, frowning.

"Mr. Derringer isn't in a position to be checked out, sir. He was just moved out of the ICU into General Surgery, and there are several notes on here that indicate he needs supervision for some time yet."

"I'm checking him out," Dean said again, more firmly this time, and his hand clenched tight into a fist on the desk. The aide blinked.

"Let me just talk to his doctor."

"No," Dean said. "Let _me_ talk to his doctor." Andreas had been strangely absent ever since Sam had woken up. Dean figured that was standard-- once a doctor had done her duty, she was on to other patients unless disaster struck.

Sam was awake when Dean finally found his room, and he looked relieved to see Dean standing in the doorway. He reached out with his uninjured hand.

"Dean," he whispered, voice still hoarse, and Dean crossed the room in two long strides and took Sam's hand in his.

"Hey, man, sorry about that. We're getting out of here, okay?"

Sam nodded, wincing as he shifted on the bed. "We still in Lawrence?"

Dean nodded. "'Fraid so. Bobby knows we're coming, though." He rubbed his thumb gently across Sam's temple. The bandages on his face were gone, and he was going to have a wicked new scar on his forehead, but both his eyes were open and clear and focused on Dean.

He could also see that Sam was still in pain, riding a low level of morphine. He wondered how much he could steal before they had to get out of there.

"Sam," he said, eyes flicking to the stand.

"They bring it in one bag at a time," Sam said, clearing his throat. "I can push the button and get a new dose every half hour. Hey, can you--?" He was reaching out for the breakfast tray beside the bed, and Dean handed him the lukewarm teapot. Sam closed his mouth around the spout and drank the tea right from the pot. Dean watched his throat working, marveling at how beautiful he was, beaten up and still going strong.

"Right," he said, baffled as to where that thought had come from, "I brought clothes." They hadn't been washed since the last time Sam wore them, but Sam snorted at him and took the sweatpants out of the bag Dean threw in his lap.

"Can you help?" he asked after a second of staring down at his uncovered legs, both of them still firmly encased in plaster.

The boxers were easier, and Dean looked away to give Sam a modicum of privacy as he hiked them up around his thin hips. The sweatpants didn't seem as interested in stretching around the casts, but Dean cut the elastic with his butterfly knife.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam hissed, "you can't fucking have that in a hospital."

"Never had a problem before," Dean said, easing the t-shirt over Sam's head with surprising gentleness. "But then, we don't do a whole lot of regular hospital visiting." Sam was stiff and slow, easing his arms back down, and Dean found himself running his hands over Sam's upper body, assessing his condition the only way he knew how. His ribs were tender and bruised still, one or two cracked, and Sam shied away when Dean touched them, pulling the shirt down between his skin and Dean's fingers.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked. "Never mind. Don't move. Sam, I said don't move. I'll be right back."

He found a wheelchair sitting alone down the hall, and brought it back. Sam was sitting up on the edge of the bed. His heart monitor was making an unhappy flat-line noise behind him, and Dean saw the clip lying on the bed. Sam was unfamiliarly thin under the clothes, shoulders hunched, and Dean slid his arm under Sam's, around his back.

"Jesus, dude, what did I just tell you?"

"Not to move," Sam rasped, grinning. Dean rolled his eyes and tightened his arm, lifting and easing Sam down off the bed.

They got stopped in the hall by Dr. Andreas. "No, no, no, wait a minute," she said. "We haven't released him, Mr. Derringer, stop right there."

Dean turned around and stepped in close to her, one hand still resting on the wheelchair. "Look," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I really appreciate what you've done, we both do, but believe me when I tell you that I've gotten Sam through worse than this." That was probably true. "I'm going to take real good care of him, but we really don't have time to stay any longer."

She blinked, brow creasing in confusion and alarm, and Dean knew he was going to win.

"We really do need to keep him under observation," she said hesitantly, obviously trying to pull out the authority she thought her medical degree afforded her.

"No," Dean said. "You can strongly recommend that, but legally he can check out now."

"He might develop complications, an infection."

"If you were worried about that," Dean growled, "you damn well should have kept him in the ICU, shouldn't you?"

Andreas scowled, but an hour later, after Dean had signed off on the insurance papers he didn't read and Sam had acknowledged the risk he was taking and they both had gotten a lecture about physical therapy, Dean was pushing him out into the parking lot.

"Fuck it's cold," Sam croaked, and Dean paused, pulling off his jacket.

"You are such a whiny bitch, Sammy," he muttered, wrapping the old leather coat around Sam's shoulders. Sam smiled, slow and tired. "You hurt anywhere?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "I'll be fine."

"You wanna lie down in the back?"

"No," Sam said, reaching out for the car's passenger door handle. "Hey baby. Long time, no see." He sat just touching her for a long time, and Dean stayed silent and unmoving, watching a tear run down Sam's face and wondering if he should look away. Finally Sam took a breath and rubbed his uninjured hand across his face, and Dean could move again.

Sam slept for two hours while Dean drove, heading north to Sioux Falls. Dean kept looking over to check that Sam was there, long and lean and pale in the passenger seat, and he found himself reaching out to touch. Sam's hands were warm where they lay on his stomach, and Dean traced the tendons in the back of his hand. For an hour, Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand wrapped around Sam's wrist.

It was familiar and comforting, driving: the road thrumming beneath them and the car holding them safe and quiet inside. Dean put some music on low, and he saw the corner of Sam's mouth quirk up as it played.

They barely stopped for lunch-- Dean got a burger he could eat with one hand at a drive-thru he wouldn't remember, and let Sam steal some of his fries. Dean wanted to go as far as he could: get as far away from the scene of the disaster as possible.

By three o'clock they were somewhere north of Omaha on I-29. Dean looked over at the passenger seat to see Sam shaking almost imperceptibly, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy," Dean growled, grabbing at his brother's hand again. Sam winced and turned his head away with a quiet groan.

"Dean, don't-"

"Fuck, Sam, if you're hurting-"

"I'm fine," Sam said, but his voice was tight.

"You're not fine," Dean said, throwing on his blinker and pulling off at the next exit. "Look, man, we've gotta have some kind of new system okay? Honesty policy or some shit. Don't tell me you're fine when you're not."

The first motel they came to was a Motel 6--normally way out of their price range, but Dean pulled in anyway. He left Sam in the car while he got a room, argued with the clerk over check-in time, and pulled around the building, cursing under his breath. Sam was breathing slowly and shakily when he opened the passenger side door, and when Dean bodily lifted him into the wheelchair he'd stuck in the back as an afterthought, Sam let out such a tiny noise through his clenched teeth that Dean might not have even heard it, had he not been attuned from the age of four to every nuance of his brother's moods and needs.

It felt like that now-- Sammy needed taking care of, and Dean was the only one who was going to do it. That was his job. It had always been his job. He'd neglected his job for too long now, but by God Dean was going to put it back together.

Guiltily, as he unlocked the door and maneuvered Sam in, he thought about Sam's demand to grow up, and thought _fuck it_. Sam could grow up when he could walk, and if he wanted then to walk out of Dean's life, Dean would have to let him. At least he wouldn't be dead.

Sam had stopped shaking by the time Dean got him laid out on the second bed and the two Vicodin Dean fed him helped a lot too. Sam was asleep in fifteen minutes, and although his face didn't completely relax, Dean was at least glad to see the color returning.

He sat for a minute on the edge of Sam's bed, staring at him. The bruising on his face was starting to heal, purple middles fading to a sickly yellow at the edges, and the stitches over his eyebrow might come out in a few days. Dean was lucky Sam hadn't had a serious concussion, and as Dean felt the back of Sam's head gently, he felt a great wave of relief to find the swelling less than it had been.

Sam's cracked ribs looked sore, and Dean could feel that Sam's breathing was shallow and careful, even knocked out like he was by the drugs. He was going to have to insist that Sam breathe deeper or they were going to have to deal with pneumonia on top of everything, and Dean was not gonna let that happen.

Dean watched Sam's eyes moving under his eyelids. He reached up and brushed a lock of Sam's stupid hair off his forehead. Maybe he could convince Sam it was time to cut it. Dean had cut Sam's hair since he could remember-- barber shops were not something the Winchesters had time or cash for.

He got off the bed, washed his hands at the sink, and stepped outside to call Bobby.

Bobby picked up on the first ring. "Dean. Where are you guys?"

"I dunno," Dean said. "Outside of Omaha. We had to stop, Bobby, Sam can't take any more driving today. We'll be up there tomorrow, I bet."

"I don't think you should," Bobby said after a moment. "Dean, you boys would be better off laying low for a bit."

"Why?" Dean asked, clutching the phone in his hand. "What's going on?"

"Well," Bobby said, "since you ganked the Devil, things have been a bit unstable."

"What do you mean, 'unstable'?" Dean demanded.

Bobby sighed. "Look, the demons are pissed. They thought the war was coming, and they're mad it's over already. Just-- just stay put, Dean. Don't hunt. Don't draw attention to yourselves."

Dean paused, realizing his pacing had taken him around the parking lot and back. "You're saying we can't come to you."

"I don't think it's a good idea, just now." Bobby shuffled some papers, and Dean could picture him sitting at his desk, frowning. "Everyone and their demon brother knows you could show up here. So do what I tell you and stay put. Settle down or something. Get a job. Y'all deserve a little quiet, I think."

"Yeah," Dean agreed after a moment's silence. "Okay. Yeah."

"We'll stay in touch," Bobby said. "Take care of yourself, son. Take care of Sam."

"Yeah," Dean said again, and then Bobby hung up.

Dean put his phone back in his pocket and turned to look at the closed motel door. Sam was in there, safe and sound, behind a line of salt and a couple of wards, and he was going to be okay.

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Dean woke up in the middle of the night, coming to full awareness instantly, hand closed around the handle of his knife. He wasn't sure what had woken him, and then he heard Sam's ruined voice from the other bed.

"Dean?" It sounded strange in the darkness: panicked and unsure, not like Sam. Dean sat up and pushed the sheets back, and crossed the small space between the beds.

"Sammy? What's up?"

He saw a pale shape move in the dark, and then Sam's hand was on his face, warm palm and sterile bandage cupping his jaw, sliding across it. Then the hand was gone.

"What's wrong, Sam?" For a minute, Dean thought about climbing into bed with Sam, which was stupid. They hadn't shared since Sam broke six feet, and Dean was twenty, and they'd stayed in that apartment in Telluride with the pines out front and the freezer on the back porch. But Sam was hurting, and Dean's first instinct was to make it better, and he'd missed the sounds of Sam just being there.

"You're here," Sam whispered, and then he coughed.

"Of course I'm here, dude," Dean said, finding Sam's shoulder in the dark and squeezing gently. "I'm here. Whatever it was, it's not real. Just a dream, man."

"It is real," Sam said, and Dean could see him turning his head slowly back and forth on the pillow. "It's real, Dean, you know that. It's all real, and it—it _hurts_ , Dean, it hurts so bad."

Dean sank down onto his knees beside Sam, and Sam reached for him again. He put his hand on Dean's cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and Dean put his hand over Sam's heart, feeling it pound under his palm, gradually slowing as they looked at each other.

"You want some water?" Dean asked eventually.

"Yeah," Sam breathed, letting his hand drop, and Dean clambered to his feet.

"Okay, man. Anything you need, let me know, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam said. Dean could see his face relax, his eyes close.

Dean dropped the plastic cup in the sink and swore as it clattered, and he heard Sam huff a laugh from behind him. When he handed the cup to Sam, Sam promptly spilled it on his shirt. Dean snorted and muttered, "Go easy, dude," and Sam let his breath out in an involuntary sigh when he relaxed again.

Dean put the cup down on the table and started to turn away, but Sam caught the front of his t-shirt in his hand.

"What?" he said, almost a growl, but unable to hide the indulgent edge.

"Stay?"

"What-- Sam, no." Sam's mouth turned down in a frown, and Dean felt his resolve crumbling. "You're not exactly tiny, dude."

"Hospital bed was smaller," Sam said, tugging on Dean's shirt. " _Dean._ "

Damn him. Saying Dean's name like that shouldn't be so convincing, but there he was, already contemplating the best way to get in with Sam without jostling him. "Okay," he said finally, "but don't take up all the room, asshole."

He watched Sam try to shift over and fail, wincing, and put a hand on his chest to stop him. He clambered in from the other side, feeling strange that he wasn't between Sam and the door, and stretched out on his stomach, not exactly cuddled up to his brother, but still touching him.

"Fuckin' hot in a bed with you," he grumbled, muffled in the pillow, and Sam harrumphed. "Like a goddamn furnace." Sam shifted, awkwardly, trapped in one position by his legs and his stitches, and Dean reached out and put his hand back on Sam's chest. "Keep still or I'm leaving," he said, but he didn't mean it. He slid his hand off Sam's chest again, tucking it with his other underneath the pillow, and settled down to sleep.

Half-dozing, listening to Sam breathe, he felt Sam's hand drift across the space between them to settle just against his ribs. He breathed in deeply to feel the pressure increase, and heard Sam exhale on a sigh.

He dreamed of Hell, but not in a way he ever had before. This time it was him and Sam, standing tall, back to back, fending off the terrors and the demons easily, playing off each other. He could feel Sam against him, firm and strong and reliable, and he knew they were going to win.

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When he got out of the shower the next morning, Sam was awake, staring at the ceiling with a glazed expression on his ashen face. Dean yanked on his boxers and hurried to him, laying a hand on his forehead.

"Hey, Sam, dude, what's going on? You okay?"

Sam let out a noise that was halfway between a whimper and a squeak, teeth bared, and shook his head. Dean let go of him and squeezed his shoulder instead, mindful of his injuries.

"Calm down, Sammy," he said, "It's okay." Sam closed his eyes and took a deeper breath, and another, the tension in his face and neck relaxing marginally, and Dean rubbed his shoulder. "That's it. Slow down. Chill out. There you go."

Sam opened his eyes again and looked up into Dean's face. "Hurts," he said. "Sorry, Dean, sorry."

"Dude, seriously," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm only giving you one Vicodin this time. That shit knocked you out so fast yesterday."

Sam took another careful breath. "And that's bad why?"

Dean's grin lasted a moment, but then he rolled his eyes and shook his still damp head over Sam, spraying his face with a sprinkle of cool drops. "Like we need you addicted to something new."

"What the fuck--" Sam started, eyes going wide, and Dean put his hands out again.

"Sorry, I didn't-- I didn't mean that. That was low."

Sam scowled at him and looked away, obviously wishing he could do a lot more than give Dean the cold shoulder. "I'm clean," he muttered. Dean stepped away, feeling like an asshole, and came back with a pill and a cup of water. Sam took it after he'd satisfied himself glaring at Dean.

"I'm gonna go-- uh." Dean rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Gonna look for a job."

Sam blinked and tried to sit up, failing until Dean got his arms around Sam's body and helped him shift so he was resting against the headboard.

"Why?"

Dean looked at him like he was touched in the head. "Because we're laying low for a bit, 'til you get better, bitch."

"We're not going to Bobby's?" Sam asked, unconsciously touching the bruise on his forehead.

"Not today," Dean said, and explained what Bobby had told him while he got dressed.

"Shit," Sam said.

"Yeah." Dean tugged on his boots and tied them. "I'll be back in a few hours. Call me if you need anything."  



	2. Part One

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Dean found a bar that was hiring and an apartment for rent within four blocks of each other. It was almost noon by then, and he called Sam to tell him but the call went to voicemail. Sam was probably asleep, he thought. Laptop geek or no, lying by yourself in a motel room while trussed up in plaster and high on painkillers had to be boring.

Unless the painkillers were really good. Which, judging by the prescription and the warnings he'd gotten before they left Lawrence Memorial, they were.

He applied at the bar, coming face to face with a tall, blonde, rough-looking woman named Jane Alice. She looked Dean up and down, fists planted on her hips, and said, "You any good?"

Dean nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets, and then immediately drawing them out again as he remembered something Sam had said about hiding your hands meaning you were lying. He tried turning them palm-up in front of him instead. "Yes ma'am. I bartended when I was younger, and I've been in a different business for a good while, but I remember."

"You can come in next week on Wednesday night," Jane Alice said. "See how you do."

Wiping his sweating palms on his jeans, Dean headed out the door and down the street to the apartment. The man who opened the door when Dean knocked was a wizened old man with no hair left and big glasses, through which he peered at Dean suspiciously.

"I'm here about the apartment?" Dean said, unsure.

The man grunted, and stepped past Dean out onto the porch, and then down the stairs, and Dean followed him around the back of the house. The man led him up a wooden staircase at the rear, and unlocked the door to a tiny, one bedroom apartment.

He let Dean look around-- kitchen had a fridge and a stove and looked clean; the bedroom was small but had a large bed, probably big enough for him and Sam to share for a while; the bathroom was tiny, but the shower looked decent, and the water pressure wasn't bad; the living room had a ratty orange couch and a miniature television Dean wasn't sure even counted as a television-- and Dean decided it was better than any motel room they'd ever stayed in.

"Deposit is six hundred fifty dollars," the man said, and Dean tried not to choke. "That's two months' rent plus damages. You bring me the money, and you can have the keys."

"Six fifty?" Dean asked, considering bartering for it, and the man gave him a slanty-eyed look.

"There's cable."

"Six fifty it is," Dean agreed.

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"I found us a place," he announced when he got back.

"What? Really?" Sam sounded incredulous. _You went out for five hours and you came back with a job and a new house?_

"Yeah," Dean said, grinning. "We can move in tomorrow, soon as I get the deposit."

"The deposit."

"Am I not speaking English?"

Sam spluttered, scrunching his face up and looking ridiculous. "I'm just surprised you found a place so fast. What's wrong with it?"

Dean glared at him. "There's nothing wrong with it, Sam, jeez. It's fine. It's a fine place."

"What's wrong with it."

Grimacing, Dean crossed his arms across his chest. "Okay, listen, the inside is fine."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"It's on the second floor."

"Okay," Sam said, "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm essentially crippled here, and-"

Dean glared at him. "I know that, Sam, Jesus. You think I don't know? I'm supposed to take care of you, and the one time I let you go-- you get seriously fucked over. So don't tell me I don't know."

Sam stared up at him, and Dean felt a wave of guilt overtake him. He'd half expected Sam to be at the desk, on the internet, when he'd gotten back. Instead, Sam was perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed, heavy casts immobilizing him, stitches across his chest newly bandaged-- he must have done it himself while Dean was gone.

"Dean," he said finally, "we don't need to talk about this again. _I_ made the decision. You gotta leave it alone."

Dean grit his teeth against the swell of frustration and just looked at him.

Sam gazed back for a while, unconsciously rubbing the edge of the bandage on his hand, and then looked down at his lap. "Okay, yeah. But you have to get me up the stairs somehow."

Dean grinned. "If I have to carry you across the threshold, though...."

"Oh shut up," Sam muttered, but Dean could see the hint of a smile on his face. "It's your fault it's on the second floor, dumbass."

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They got Sam up the stairs one step at a time, Dean holding his legs and Sam hauling himself up backwards one step at a time. They made a ridiculous picture, and the landlord just stood there and stared at them for a good ten minutes. Dean finally glared him back into the house, and then Sam was laughing, and exhausted, and they had to stop halfway up.

Once they were at the top, and Sam was safely seated in the wheelchair again, rolling his way from the tiny bedroom to the kitchen and back through the living room, Dean parked the Impala behind the house and brought up their bags. It was a meager pile of belongings, sitting sadly on the floor, but Dean quickly supplemented it with the bags from the second-hand store, with sheets and some ugly blankets, a few pots for cooking, and some milk crates he'd rescued from the trash behind the grocery store.

"It's like college," Sam said, pressing his hand to his cracked ribs and quietly struggling to take in a deep breath.

"How is it like college?" Dean demanded.

Sam smiled at him, wan and tired. "Just—poor-ass college kids and milk crates. It's a thing."

"How is it a thing?"

"Never mind," Sam said. "Make the bed, bitch, I'm wiped."

They settled in fairly quickly: not having a lot of personal belongings made it easy and painless to fight over who got which side of the single large bed, and which one of them was going to take the top drawer of the dresser. Dean won, although it was an easy victory since Sam couldn't see into the top drawer from his seated position.

There was cable, as promised, and they celebrated their first night in an apartment in ten years with Chinese food, delivered to their address, and a movie Dean found called _Frankenhooker._

Sam was still pretty fucked over, and Dean caught him looking particularly ashen after he'd spent too long upright. Dean kept him in a regular gentle fog of Vicodin, hating himself for it at the same time as he thanked God that this was the worst they had to deal with, for now.

They hadn't heard from Cas in ages, not since he'd disappeared right after the showdown at Stull Cemetery. When Dean called Cas's old number it went right to an automated voicemail, and he didn't leave a message.

____spacer____

  
At six o'clock on Wednesday night the next week, Dean left Sam in the apartment with some Discovery channel show about blowing shit up and the carry-out sitting on the tiny kitchen counter, and walked the four blocks to the bar. It was warm out, cooling slowly as night came on, and he tied his flannel around his waist as he walked.

Cars rumbled past him periodically, low growl of their engines heralding their approach, and he smiled at their drivers without thinking. It was weird, this quietness, this stationary status. They hadn't stayed so long in one place since they were kids. Since Sam left for Stanford.

But the down payment was paid, and that was that, at least for six months. As long as it would take Sam to get back on his feet, literally. That was all. That was all they needed. And maybe by then they'd get wind of something suspicious, something in their normal line of work, and they'd be back to normal. Just like always.

Dean pushed open the door to the bar and Jane Alice was standing behind the counter, waiting for him, rag slung over her shoulder and her hands on her hips. She glanced at the wall behind him as he approached, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're late," she said. Dean looked.

"Two minutes," he said. "Took longer to walk than I thought it would."

She raised an eyebrow.

"There's no one here!" Dean protested.

She smirked. "Fine assessment. Wash your hands."

Jane Alice spent the first two hours of Dean's shift showing him where things were, how the kitchen worked, things he was not allowed to touch, how to work the register. By eight a few patrons had wandered in, and Jane Alice had greeted each and every one of them by name, every time giving Dean a significant look like he was supposed to remember all the faces of all the Wednesday night regulars in town. Jesus.

She didn't let him serve anyone that night, just had him running for more glasses, more napkins, more peanuts, more ice, more bottles.

There was a pause at eleven, and Dean wiped his hands and face on the towel he'd tucked in his belt.

"I thought you were hiring a bartender," he said, scrubbing the back of his neck. Jane Alice looked up from where she was washing a glass at the sink just inside the kitchen door.

"I thought I was hiring an employee," she retorted. "What're you standing there for? Christ, boy."

She was probably fifty, and didn't exactly have a right to call him 'boy' at thirty-two, but he bit the inside of his cheek and collected empty glasses off the counter, sweeping them with a rattling clink and crash into the plastic bin.

"Jesus!" Jane Alice yelled from the kitchen. "I need those glasses to last the night, Winchester!"

She set him to washing, and went back out into the bar.

Sam was asleep when he unlocked the front door as quietly as he could, head tipped back on the lumpy sofa arm, one arm flung along the back, fingers of the other hand curling gently on his stomach. His left leg was propped up on the sofa, while his right leg lolled off, heel resting on the floor. The TV was off, but the table lamp was on.

Dean looked at him for a long time: the way his eyelashes fluttered, the rise and fall of his chest, his strong body reduced by inactivity but not gone altogether. Sam's face was golden in the low light, and his hair looked feather soft.

There it was again, the word _beautiful_ echoing somewhere in Dean's head, and he shook it off. "Sammy," he whispered, and Sam's head jerked up.

"Huh?" He blinked and rubbed as his eyes, sweeping his hands down his face in an attempt to wake himself up. He yawned hugely, and Dean tightened his jaw against the answering compulsion.

"Why'd you wait up?"

"Hmm," Sam said eloquently, shaking his head and looking up, finally clear-eyed, at Dean above him. "I dunno. Just fell asleep I guess. There was a thing on the Da Vinci Code, I think."

Dean fought a smirk. "Your favorite."

Sam laughed softly and yawned again into the crook of his elbow. "You bet."

"Come on," Dean said quietly, dropping his flannel on the back of the sofa and holding out his hands for Sam's. Sam took them both and Dean pulled him into a sitting position, from which he could put his arms around Sam's ribs and Sam could put his own around Dean's shoulders, and together they could maneuver Sam off the sofa and into the chair that sat quiet and conspicuous beside.

Sam winced as he settled, but he turned around and headed for the bedroom like a champ. Dean turned off the light and poked his head into the kitchen. The counter was clean, so Sam had moved at least once to put dinner away, into the fridge.

By the time he made it to the bedroom, Sam was sitting on the bed, shirtless, and struggling with getting his sweats off over the casts.

"Fuck," he muttered when Dean dropped to his knees and eased them off. "Sorry."

"Cripple," Dean admonished, glancing up.

"Wait, look," Sam said, nodding at his feet, and when Dean looked down again, the toes of his left foot wiggled.

Dean felt a strange rush of pride, and he squeezed Sam's hard cast gently, nodding.

"Looks like you'll live after all, huh?"

Sam grinned, and Dean pushed on his shoulder so Sam eased back onto the bed, slower than he would normally, still favoring his right side. Dean undressed, yanking his cigarette-smoke-and-beer soaked shirt over his head and dropping his jeans on the floor in his corner.

"Stop taking up all the room, bitch," he muttered, pushing at Sam as he climbed in beside him. "I oughta left your ass on the couch."

"Shut up," Sam murmured, squirming his face into the pillow and pulling his arms up over his head. "'M sleeping."

Dean watched the curve of his brother's ribs and shoulder rise and fall in the dark room, and he was reaching out to touch the back of Sam's neck before he could stop himself.

Sam started in surprise, making an inarticulate, sleepy noise, and Dean pulled his hand back. "Sorry," he said immediately, and Sam shrugged one shoulder sideways.

"It's okay," Dean heard him whisper, so he put his hand back, rubbing a small circle with his fingers and then his palm, like he'd done when Sam was little. When he fell asleep, his hand was on Sam's stomach, his nose to Sam's spine, and Sam was breathing deep and slow under his arm.

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Dean spent the next month working weeknights at the bar, and by the third week Jane Alice was letting him run the bar on his own. He had proved himself familiar with all the liquor and all the mixes and all the draft beer, and she had finally raised one neat eyebrow at him and said, "All right boy, do your thing."

Dean grinned, spinning a bottle of liquor in his palm and watching her eyes flash in annoyance and amusement. "Thanks, doll," he said, and she scowled, but her eyes stayed soft.

"Don't break anything," she admonished by way of reply, and disappeared into the kitchen, coming out periodically to check on him and chat with her regulars.

Around eleven one evening, a little over a month after Sam and Dean had moved into their tiny apartment, a group of young women came into the bar who could only have come from the college. Dean smirked to himself and finished filling the two glasses in his hand before heading their way as they approached the bar.

He'd missed this-- the girls were pretty, had dressed up a little, but Dean could tell they weren't the snotty, preppy type that only went for sweaty, thick-bodied athletes. Why he still thought in high-school stereotypes he couldn't tell, exactly, but these weren't those kinds of girls.

"Evenin' ladies," he said, voice smooth and low, sidling up to the bar and spreading his hands wide on the edge. "What can I get'cha?"

They giggled. One of them pushed her way through the group. "You guys are so stupid," she told them, and turned her smile on Dean. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face, big dark eyes, and long, shiny brown hair. She was wearing lipstick, a hot, dangerous red, and Dean let his eyes drift down for a moment to the V of her slinky blue shirt, where her tits were tastefully not falling out, but were definitely worth looking at.

"Tequila," she said, as his eyes met hers again, and she smirked. "Shots, and leave the bottle. But don't go too far."

"You got it," Dean said, returning her smile and feeling warm in his chest and gut, slow pulse of blood pushing him into full flirting mode. He'd fuckin' _missed_ this.

He turned away and gathered a handful of shot glasses and the good tequila bottle, fitted it with the spout, and plunked it in front of the girls. He also filled a little bowl with limes and coarse salt, and said, "You let me know when you need something else, huh?"

There were other patrons, then, and they kept him busy for a while, mixing drinks and pouring beers and yelling for more ice. But the dark-eyed girl kept looking his way, and once she even winked.

"So you're new in town," she said when Dean finally managed to return his attention to the girls.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Been here a couple of weeks."

"Why?" she asked, resting both elbows on the bar and giving him a delightful display. "What's this place got to offer for a guy like you?"

Dean shrugged, slow and easy, slinging the towel he held over his shoulder. He ran one hand through his hair, inadvertently convincing it to spike a little higher, and the girl smiled a slow, sweet, sultry smile.

"Used to move around a lot," he said finally. "Family business."

"And now?" She turned on her stool and rested on one elbow now, licking the tip of her finger and touching it to the salt in the bowl. Dean watched the flick of her tongue.

"Uh," he said, "you know. Taking a hiatus. Did a big job recently, figured we could use a break."

"I'm Kate," she said, pushing herself upright and cocking her head to the side. Her loose hair spilled over her shoulder.

"Dean."

"You said 'we'?"

"Hmm?" Dean stepped away to refill a beer, and cocked an eyebrow as he came back.

"Just now," she said. "You said, ' _we_ could use a break.'"

"My brother," Dean said. Damn Sammy, popping up even when he wasn't invited, and wasn't even present. Motherfucker had cock-blocking down to a science. "He's my business partner." It was good to have that be the truth again. "He got into an accident, actually, so we're staying in one place until he's back on his feet."

Kate's face creased in concern. "Oh no," she said. "Is he all right?"

"He'll live," Dean said, grinning, and Kate's smile came back.

"That's good. You guys get along?"

Dean nodded, and couldn't help smiling. Thank god. He and Sam hadn't even bickered for weeks now, and while Dean could probably thank Vicodin for that, he was still riding the high of his brother being alive after all, and their having ended the invisible war. Sam was mostly occupied with regaining the use of his legs.

"Yeah, mostly. You know how siblings are."

He thought about all the time he'd wasted not trusting Sam, hating him for being so close and knowing him so well; all the times Sam'd tried to leave, get away from his influence and have space to think clearly; all the time, then, Dean had spent miserable and afraid that Sam was going to say yes, going to leave him for good; Sam saying yes and leaving him.

She laughed, then, breaking the line of his thoughts. "Do I ever. I've got two older sisters, and man! It's rough sometimes, but I love them."

"Listen--" Dean said after a pause, at the same time that she said, "Hey, so--"

They both laughed, and Kate reached out and put her soft, warm hand on Dean's arm. "What time do you get off?"

"Two," Dean said, valiantly stifling a leer, because this was in the bag, and he might even be getting _off_ at two.

Kate sighed dramatically. "God that's late." She smiled again, though, coy and sweet, and said, "Let me give you my number, okay? We should get dinner. I'd really like to..." and then she gave him a very deliberate look up-and-down, and he almost blushed, "get to know you better, Dean."

She wrote her number on a napkin, and later she leaned over the bar to kiss him on the cheek when she and her friends were on their way out. Her friends whooped and giggled and ushered her out ahead of them, demanding in loud whispers to know everything. Dean just grinned.

He'd forgotten how easy and ridiculous that was. She was a nice girl, too, not like most of the girls he'd ever picked up. Those girls were easier to convince one night was all they needed or wanted from him, but as he wiped down glassware and put it in the washer bin, he found himself wondering what it might be like to actually date.

He'd never had a relationship longer than a couple of weeks. Even Cassie had lasted only about three, and then he'd made the mistake of telling her the truth, and it hadn't gone well. Lisa had only really existed for one fucking amazing weekend, and although she'd stayed in his mind, she hadn't really stuck in his heart.

Dean tucked the napkin into his back pocket, and it sat there and reminded him that he just might get to have a normal life after all. He might kiss this girl in a coffee shop, or take her out to dinner. He might take her home, to his house, and Sam would probably be a jerk about it, and they might have to keep it on the couch, since he probably shouldn't kick Sam out of the bedroom, legs and all, even if he really wanted to and it was the right thing to do as reigning big brother.

Jane Alice kept looking at him funny, and by the end of the night, she said, "You done something you shouldn't, Winchester?"

"No ma'am," he replied, wiping his hands on a damp rag and then drying them on the hem of his shirt. "Only things I should."

____spacer____

  
He asked Kate out for a date three days later, after Sam schooled him in the appropriate length of time to let a girl wait before calling her. The whole time he had this tight, bitchy look on his face, but when Dean called him on it he muttered, "Legs are fucking stiff, man," and Dean let it drop.

Kate agreed to dinner and a movie, and Dean picked her up in the Impala, which she 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed over appropriately.

"This is a classic, Dean," she said, sliding into Sam's seat and running her hands over the dashboard. "It's gorgeous."

They went to a restaurant that she picked out, and Dean took one look at the menu and realized he was way out of his depth.

"So tell me about your business," Kate said when they were sipping wine and waiting for their meals. She was gorgeous--dark hair piled up in a loose bun that left wisps to frame her face, slinky dress, sky high heels that made her almost as tall as Dean--and she smiled over the lip of her glass, lipstick making her mouth look plush and soft.

"Well," Dean said slowly, "it's a little complicated."

She just looked interested.

He fiddled with the tie Sam had made him wear. His blazer looked stupid with his old jeans, but Sam had insisted. "We, um. We're kind of like private investigators."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really? What do you investigate?"

 _Goddamn it,_ Dean thought.

"Private disturbances," he said. "Suspicious activity. Family disputes." _God, Lucifer, demons, shape shifters._ "Sometimes people call us in." _Recruit us for a holy war._ "Sometimes we work with law enforcement." _If a glovebox full of fake FBI badges counts._

"Wow," she said.

"I can't really elaborate," he said, winking, and then their food arrived, thank god.

Dean steered the conversation after that back to her and her research. She was getting a Masters in French Literature and had been considering teaching, but she was enjoying the research and paper writing so much that she was applying for a grant--

Dean tried very hard to listen and respond accordingly, but he could tell she was catching onto the fact that he had no idea what she was talking about. He was relieved when the check came, finally, and she declined dessert and said, "We should get to the theater."

After the movie--a romantic comedy that Dean half-heartedly followed--she let him drive her halfway back to her place, and then she said, "Hey, turn off here."

They pulled off the road onto a dark, quiet back road, and she kicked off her shoes and crawled across the seat.

Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, warm and sweet, tasting like fruity gum over wine. She slid her hands up into his short hair, raking her nails across his scalp, and he shivered and kissed her harder, sliding his tongue into her mouth as he wrapped his arms around her body.

She arched against him, pressing her round breasts into his chest, and he could feel himself getting hard, thickening in his pants as she kissed him. She pushed his hand higher and he felt her smile against his mouth.

"Kate," he said, "are you sure--"

"Absolutely," she whispered, breathless. "I've got roommates at home; they're nosy. Is this okay?"

"Yeah," he agreed, and took hold of both her hips in his hands, pulling her towards him, almost into his lap. She gasped and hummed with quiet pleasure, and broke the kiss to push his blazer off his shoulders.

Her mouth was soft in a different way when she finally sealed it around the head of his cock after a leisurely make-out session in the back seat of Dean's best girl, sucking gently and licking him with little, kittenish licks. Her delicate hand wrapped around the base of his dick, firm and uncalloused, and Dean very much resisted the urge to put his hands on her head. She slid down a bit, taking him deeper, and she was so soft and wet and warm around his cock.

He was enjoying the slow build-up, the anticipation of either the orgasm or the progression to fucking, and he stroked her hair away from the back of her neck and spread his knees a little wider. He wasn't close at all, just feeling good, and she didn't seem to be in a rush either: licking and sucking and rubbing the palms of her hands over his abs. She licked a line up the sensitive underside of his cock, and then tongued around the head. She lined his dick up with her mouth using her fist, and bobbed her head, taking him in shallowly, not quite teasing, just gently coaxing.

Dean's phone started to vibrate in his pocket, somewhere around his knee, and he knew instantly that it was Sam calling. Suddenly he was moments from orgasm, tight heat in his belly rising and cock swelling.

"Oh fuck," he hissed, and Kate apparently got the message, because she sucked him down fast, holding onto his hips, and he stuffed his fist in his mouth as he came. The image seared across the inside of his eyelids was not the face of the pretty girl between his thighs, but of his brother, sitting on the bed, stupid with sleep, calling out of habit to check in.

He gritted his teeth against the helpless moan that wanted to escape, and it came out as a strangled grunt instead. Kate gave him a few moments, and then she pulled away when he reached down and touched her shoulder.

"Wow," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"C'mere," Dean muttered, pulling her up towards him and turning them over so she lay back on the seat. As he pushed up the hem of her skirt, his phone vibrated again, letting him know he had a voicemail.

____spacer____

  
Sam was asleep when he got in, but the light was on in the bedroom, and he had a ratty paperback folded open on his chest. He jerked awake the second Dean opened the door.

"Hey," Dean whispered.

"Mm," Sam agreed, drowsily closing the book and setting it aside. "How was your date?"

"Okay," Dean said. "She asked a lot of questions about--you know." He put it in air quotes. "My Business."

Sam smiled, sleepy and sweet, and Dean felt guilty all over again at how good he looked. "Did you get my message?"

"No." Dean stripped off his shirt and jeans and left them in a heap, and then he hesitated. "What did it say?"

"I found a hunt, maybe," Sam said, putting his hand over his eyes. "Are you getting in?"

"I'm gonna shower," Dean said.

"'Kay," Sam mumbled, and if Dean detected a pause he wasn't going to call Sam on it. Now Sam would definitely know that he'd hooked up with Kate--post-sex showers were required, especially if one were now sharing a bed with one's brother, who one may or may not have gotten off to the thought of half an hour earlier.

The light was out when Dean got out of the shower, but Sam obviously woke up enough when he climbed in to grumble, "We need another fucking bed, man, this is ridiculous."

____spacer____

  
Dean woke up pressed against a warm, familiar body. He had his arm tucked snugly over their waist, and his nose buried in their hair, and he felt comfortable and calm all over: body relaxed, thoughts quiet in his head. He could feel the steady breathing under his palm, the slow rise and fall of ribs under his arm, and the faintest sensation of a beating heart.

His mind helpfully supplied the fact that he'd been with a girl the night before, while another part of it took the time to mention that this smell was awfully familiar, but before he absorbed that he had already pressed his first kiss to the skin under his mouth.

Keeping his eyes closed, Dean splayed his fingers slowly over his bedmate's abdomen and opened his mouth, digging in gently with his teeth and then soothing the mark with a soft swipe of his tongue. Following this with another kiss, Dean breathed in deeply and suddenly realized what the fuck he was doing.

That smell-- it was Sam's soap and stupid shampoo, and the smell of his body that was sharp and strong when he sweated, but now was muted and pleasant. Dean's mouth was watering, and he swallowed slowly, as if being quiet now could take back what he'd just done, making out with the back of Sam's neck and shoulder. Not to mention his embarrassing slip not eight hours earlier-- what the fuck had that been, anyway?

Sam sighed quietly, just a tiny exhale through his nose, and Dean froze, if it were possible to become more immobile than not really moving already. He held his breath and stared intently at the back of Sam's head, praying that Sam would still be asleep, and maybe he could extract himself from this situation before disaster struck.

He took stock of the rest of the situation, as it stood.

Dean was spooned up behind Sam, snug and close and unbelievably comfortable. Sam's t-shirt was rucked up and Dean had his hand on Sam's bare stomach. There was also enough room in the collar for Dean to have thoroughly molested his brother with his mouth, which incidentally he had not entirely removed from the back of Sam's neck, and where the hell did Sam get shirts that fit him, let alone shirts that were too big on him?

 _Focus,_ Dean thought.

He remembered now every detail of the night before, and waking up with Sam in his arms did not, for some reason, seem all that unusual.

Sam's better leg stuck out in front of him, and his bad leg lay at an awkward angle, and his hands were curled up under his chin, wrists crossed. Dean remembered watching him sleep like that when Sam was a kid, and the whole thing seemed to get worse.

He let go of Sam's abdomen, denying vehemently the moment in which his fingertips dragged appreciatively across the defined plane of muscle, and eased himself backwards in an attempt to free himself from the situation.

This is what came from having not enough bed room, Dean decided. They definitely did need two beds.

Sam snuffled and burrowed his head a little deeper into the pillow, shifting one wrist into a more comfortable position, and Dean discovered with a sort of sick, odd detachment that he was hard. Not like morning-wood-inconvenient hard, but like unbelievably-turned-on hard. His body, apparently without his input, had decided that the feel of Sam's body against his and the smell of Sam's hair, the sound of Sam breathing and the slow shift of his muscles under his skin, were the best thing ever invented. His cock was a dull, throbbing pressure between his legs, and was pressed up snug against Sam's ass, separated from his brother by only the layers of their shorts.

Dean pulled away sharply, jerking his hips away and his arm free, and scrambled off the side of the bed. As he headed for the bathroom at what might be called top speed, he heard Sam's mumbled, "Dean?" from the bed, and he slammed the door decisively between them.

____spacer____

  
Sam appeared in the kitchen half an hour later, still wearing what he'd slept in, and maneuvering himself awkwardly through the too-small kitchen doorway. The chair eased to a stop by the refrigerator, and Dean looked up from the skillet.

"So this hunt," he said, poking pancakes with his spatula.

"Yeah?" Sam said, opening the fridge and poking around for the carton of orange juice. "Shit, we need bread."

"Right," Dean said quickly.

Sam drank right from the carton, which Dean watched with some kind of morbid fascination, fixated on the drop of orange juice that spilled from his mouth and ran in a sticky drop down his cheek. Sam wiped his face with the back of his hand, a little sheepishly, and reached up to set the carton on the counter beside Dean's elbow.

"Um," he said, running a hand through his hair, "I think it's a poltergeist, in Tennessee. Not too far, I think. You could be go and be back in a week."

Dean frowned, glaring at the pancakes. They were perfect. They were the only thing on God's green earth-- _hilarious,_ he thought-- that he could cook with a decent level of competence. Sam loved blueberry pancakes.

"Dean?"

"I dunno," Dean said, shrugging one shoulder, trying to sound nonchalant.

Sam paused. "You don't know?"

"Someone else can get it."

"We're right here, though. A week, man."

"Don't you have an appointment tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Sam said slowly.

"Well, how the fuck are you going to get there? City bus?"

Sam scowled, gripping the arms of his stolen wheelchair until his knuckles turned white.

"I can get there myself," he said.

"No," Dean said, turning away from the skillet and his perfect pancakes to point the spatula at Sam. "You can't. I'm not going to let you. I'm supposed to take care of you, and how the hell can I do that if I'm a state away getting knocked around by a poltergeist?"

Sam huffed a sigh. "Dean, you can handle a poltergeist without me."

"That's not the point," Dean said. He jabbed at the pancakes and thrust them roughly onto a plate. "It's fine," he growled. "I'm staying here."

"Dean--"

"I'm staying here, Sammy."

Sam took the proffered plate slowly, staring down at the pancakes. "Okay," he said finally. "Fine. I'll call Bobby and see if he knows anyone who can take it."

"Fine," Dean agreed.

They ate their pancakes in silence. Dean caught himself glancing over at Sam more times perhaps than was necessary, and every time he thought maybe they were playing that game where you try as hard as you can to look without making eye contact. He would look at Sam, and Sam's eyes would instantly cut away, back to his pancakes, or the wall, or the edge of his cast.

Dean went out after breakfast to buy bread.

____spacer____

  
The orthopedist they went to had clinic on Mondays and Thursdays at the local hospital, and seemed very enthusiastic to meet Sam and take x-rays of his legs and body for the follow-up they weren't getting from Lawrence Memorial.

"So, car accident, you said?" Dr. Miller asked, peering at the translucent radiographs on the board. Sam nodded and fidgeted, and Dean tried very hard not to pace.

"Yes," Sam said. "Last month."

"Hmm," Dr. Miller mused, tapping his finger against his chin. "They're very unusual fracture lines for a car accident."

"I wasn't driving the car," Sam said, venturing a glance at Dean.

"And the driver--" Dr. Miller began.

"Is this an accident report," Dean interrupted, "or a PT consult?"

Dr. Miller blinked at him from behind thick-framed glasses, and then inhaled slowly through his too-large nose. "Well, anyway," he said, as if the change of subject had been his own idea. "I think you're healing up well. It's good that you're not on your feet-- although how you would be, I can't imagine." His laugh was nasal and grating, and Dean scowled. Hospitals were ridiculous, and doctors were ridiculous, and if Sam weren't looking so damned pathetic in his casts this would be a gigantic waste of time.

"This one can probably come off in six more weeks," Miller was saying, indicating Sam's right leg, the less damaged of the two. "We'll put you in a boot, and work on movement, flexibility, and weight bearing. This one," he said, touching Sam's other, plaster-covered knee, "will need some more time. Be gentle with yourself, Mr. Derringer. Your ribs are healing too, but they'll need time too since they aren't immobilized. How is your head?"

"Fine," Sam said, reaching up and touching the scar. The ugly bruise was long gone, and the gaping wound closed up by Dean's own neat stitches.

"A concussion, I presume?"

"A decent one," Dean said, without thinking, and Sam shot him a look that clearly said, _Please be quiet, you are embarrassing me by even being here. No other adult in the world has his big brother sit in on his doctor's appointments, goddamn it Dean._

"And these suture lines," Miller said, but Sam shied away from the hand that reached to touch the edge of the scar below his collarbone.

"That's not--" Sam stuttered, "not related, not related to the incident. Thank you."

Miller eyed him suspiciously, but the dark look Dean gave him inclined him to drop the matter.

"All right. Well, as I said, the right leg is making excellent progress. Stay off it for now, but let's make an appointment for six weeks when the cast can come off. After that, I'm going to need you to start working very hard on recovery, and come to the PT clinic three times a week."

Dean could feel the blood draining from his face. How the fuck was he going to pay for that? The bar was paying enough for the apartment, sure, and a little left over, but he hadn't had the job all that long, and they certainly couldn't work off their credit cards. Not only did their names not match, but they weren't going to work in one place for a while. So maybe if he put in more hours at the bar, if Jane Alice would let him, and if they could convince Miller that Sam only needed PT twice a week--

"Dean." Sam was touching his arm, brow furrowed in concern, his stupid hair falling in his face. He tossed his head unconsciously, and raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Sure," he said, and he definitely did not sound okay. "Yeah, sorry. I'm fine."

Sam gave him a knowing smile, and Dr. Miller said, "If you're worried about finances—"

Dean glared at him. "We'll figure it out," he said.

"Dean," Sam said quietly, again. "It's okay."

"I know it's okay," Dean snapped, and then he shut his mouth. He was being ridiculous.

They ended up talking to a 'financial counselor' anyway, and Dean realized afterwards that he'd managed to chew all of his fingernails to the quick. She assured them that the clinic could work with their financial situation, and whatever the hell else, and Dean stopped listening when she finally said that it wouldn't be a problem. It obviously would be a problem, and as he was sliding into the driver seat of the Impala, Sam settled safe beside him, he put his forehead against the steering wheel and took a steadying breath.

Sam's big, warm hand landed on his shoulder, but Sam said nothing.

"I don't want to draw attention to us," Dean said finally. "Don't need anyone sniffing around, lookin' for us. Comin' after you." He lifted his head and stared up through the windshield at the serious red brick of the clinic and all its neighboring offices. These people had real jobs. These people could support their families.

Sam squeezed his shoulder, and then his hand was moving up, curling around the back of Dean's neck. It was weirdly comforting and unnerving at the same time.

"Dean, we'll be fine. It's nothing we can't deal with. Soon as I'm on my feet I'll get a job too."

"No," Dean said. "I need you to get better. Don't want to tax you."

When he looked over, Sam was stifling an incredulous grin.

"What?"

"Never thought I'd see the day when you didn't demand I pull my own weight. Gettin' soft in your old age?"

"Oh shut up," Dean grumbled, but he felt better already. He started the car. "We're going on a budget, Sam. No more carry-out. Learn to cook, asshole. That'll be your job."

"Fine," Sam said as they pulled out of the parking lot. "But I get to cook anything I want, and you have to eat it."  



	3. Part Three

____spacer____

  
In another month and a half, Dean was used to eating his packed dinner at the bar-- Sam cooked it before he left and pushed it into his hands on the way out the door-- and Sam's right lower leg was strapped into a big black boot that he could take off to sleep and bathe. He hadn't quite graduated to crutches yet, but already he was sleeping better.

And he smelled better too. The tiny apartment bathtub was always a chore, but now at least he only had to keep one leg out. More than once he went to take a bath while Dean was home, citing a need to be lifeguarded in case he got stuck and drowned.

"Wouldn't that be a fitting end," Dean grumbled, throwing Sam's towel on the toilet lid. "All this time fighting monsters and angels and demons and shit, and you die in the bathtub."

"It would be poetic," Sam agreed from behind the curtain.

"I don't think 'poetic' is the word you're actually looking for, Sammy."

"I don't think you need to be in here all the time, Dean."

When Dean asked Jane Alice if he could work more, she pursed her lips at him. "Boy, I've already got you workin' eight hours a night, four nights a week. How much more is there?"

He blew out a breath through his teeth. "My brother," he said, trying to explain.

"Look," she said. "I want to help you out. I do. But I don't have much more to give. What else you like to do, Winchester?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm saying get another job. I'll put in a good word, anywhere you like."

"Know anywhere that's looking?"

"Well, tell me what you're good at, and I'll ask around."

"I know cars," Dean said. _And werewolves,_ he thought, but he didn't say that. "You should see my baby."

"All right," Jane Alice replied, the beginning of a smile forming on her face. "I think I know who I can talk to."

____spacer____

  
The guy who owned the garage, Tim, took one look at the Impala and hired him on the spot.

"Is this real?" he asked, over and over, running his hands reverently along the paint work, and then later over the lines of her engine.

"Damn straight," Dean said. "She was my dad's, but--" He put his hand on roof, just above the driver side door. "She got wrecked a while back: totaled, I mean, really wrecked. I put her back together. And I do all the upkeep."

"Well," Tim said, putting his grimy hands on his hips. "I guess you're in."

Dean started working mornings at the garage, having his afternoons off, and then going at night to work at the bar with Jane Alice. Sam spent his time researching hunts, even though Dean kept telling him to knock it off, and reading. He made Dean go to the library once a week or more, with a list of books in hand, and looked unendingly grateful when Dean got back with new things to keep him entertained.

Sometimes, Dean thought about calling Kate. He really did. She was sweet, and pretty, and he knew she was into him. At least, she had been the one night. But he wasn't sure how exactly to go about maintaining a relationship.

Besides, Sam needed him. Dean was already working two jobs, and when he had time off he felt like spending it with Sam.

Their dynamic was different, now that they weren't hunting. It was calmer, less frenetic, less stressful. It was strange to not be on a mission for so long. Dean turned down ghosts and a werewolf and three cases of demonic activity, just so Sam would quit looking like he expected Dean to up and leave any minute.

Well, not just because of that.

He felt like they'd deserved a break. Lucifer and Michael had been the last straw, for Dean at least, and he couldn't really imagine Sam feeling any different. No one had come looking for them in over two months.

So Dean put the napkin with Kate's number into the trash (he would have to remember to take it out), and went to join Sam at the kitchen table, where Sam had his laptop and a spread of books open, deciphering something Bobby had sent him.

"What do you think about going back to school?" Dean asked, abruptly.

Sam blinked at him. "What? Why?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. You're good at it, aren't you?"

"Um," Sam said. "I guess?"

"I bet you could take some classes, if you wanted."

Sam put down the book he was holding-- _Demonic Transitions In Quantum Structures_ or some shit--and stared at Dean for a long time. Dean felt heat rising in his face, and something strange and wonderful and terrifying squirming warm in his stomach at the look in Sam's eyes--like he was seeing Dean for the first time. Finally he glanced back down at his book, and Dean could breathe again.

"Not really. Not right now."

Dean checked his watch. "Okay. Just throwing it out there. But as soon as you quit being such a lazy cripple, I'm gonna expect you to pull your weight, here. Workin' my ass off to feed you."

Sam saw right through the cranky attitude, though, and smiled. "Naw," he said, drawing it out. "I kinda like you doing all the chores for once."

Dean kicked the wheelchair with his toe on the way past. "Bitch," he said.

He heard Sam call, "We need milk, jerk!" as he headed out the door, and couldn't stop grinning.

____spacer____

  
"What was it like?" Dean asked, late on Sunday night. He shouldn't be drinking--he had to be at the garage at nine--but Sam had suggested it, bored out of his skull by his inability to leave the house.

Sam was lying on the floor, legs propped up on the sofa, both cast and boot a strange heavy weight by Dean's side. Dean sprawled in the corner of the couch, one arm up on the armrest and the other resting by Sam's right foot, playing with the end of the velcro strap.

"Hmm?" Sam said. "What was what like?"

"You know," Dean said.

Sam shook his head-- rolled it back and forth across the ratty carpet. "Nope. Don't know."

Dean closed his eyes and stared at the inside of his eyelids. He saw the fire of Hell, ice on the window, Sam's face changing once Lucifer had him. "Being Lucifer's bitch. What was that like."

Sam's hitch of breath was audible, and Dean opened his eyes again. Sam was staring at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, breathing shallowly. His shirt had ridden up, exposing the lower edge of two scars on his belly.

"I don't--" Sam said, and then, "Dean?"

Dean drained the bottle and set it aside, sliding his way awkwardly off the couch and down beside Sam. This was the worst time to be broaching the subject-- but it had been months. Months without a word. Months without an acknowledgment of what had laid Sam low, what had landed them in some microscopic apartment in some stupid town in Nebraska, what Dean had let him do. Months without a truth more important than how Sam was feeling, or how Dean's day or night at work had been.

 _Superficial_ , Dean thought, dropping his head back onto the floor next to Sam's shoulder. Sam was trying to roll away.

"Sam," Dean said. "Tell me, man. Tell me. We're okay, right?"

Sam nodded a jerky affirmation, face turned away, and Dean listened to him hyperventilate.

"Sammy."

"Why, Dean? Why can't you be satisfied that it's over?" Sam's hands were clenched into fists on his stomach-- he was trapped there, unable to get up, unable to run away. He sounded like he was choking.

Dean put a hand up to check, through the haze of alcohol, knowing he had to protect Sam. His fingers met the warm skin of Sam's throat, bare and unmarked, and Sam made an inarticulate noise.

"Tell me what it was like," Dean said again, propping himself up on one elbow to look down into Sam's face. Sam's eyes were shining, wet, but he wasn't crying. He looked sad and lost and guilty, and Dean's fingers drifted of their own accord up from Sam's neck to cup Sam's cheek.

"Dean, don't--"

"I need to know," Dean whispered. It was like a hot weight in his stomach. Sam had fought so hard, had known it was the right choice to take Lucifer in like that, and he'd beat him in the end. But Dean needed to know what the rest of it was like-- what Sam heard inside his own head, what Lucifer did in his body-- and he'd been so consumed with the need to find Sam, get him back, that he hadn't even considered how glad Sam had been to see him at first, even if he was drugged out and ruined.

Sam shook his head, biting his lip hard. Dean could see the pressure of his teeth, and he touched Sam's lower lip with the tip of his thumb. Sam let it go on a harsh exhale and struggled his way to his elbows.

"Dean, stop. It's done. I did what I did, and I'm sorry it went badly, I am, but I wouldn't take it back." Dean blinked at him for a minute, gathering his arguments, and then Sam went on suddenly. "He showed me all the people Yellow Eyes put in my life to keep track of me. I-- he-- he drained them. Put their blood into my body, made me strong. I wanted to kill him. I tried to, too, but it hurt. Inside. It was hurting me, and I just-- I had to let go, had to keep myself alive until he was distracted."

Dean let his hand rest on Sam's chest, over his heart.

"He told me you were dead," Sam said. "I saw you, before we left Detroit, but I almost believed him. I thought-- god, I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to believe it, but-- I thought he had the power to do it."

"I guess he didn't care much for me," Dean said, leaning forwards and resting his head against Sam's shoulder. Sam's breath hitched.

"I guess not," he said quietly. "But I do."

Dean looked up, lifted his head, suddenly sure he was going to miss something important if he didn't pay close attention. Sam was looking at him, eyes dark and intense. His hair hid the scar on his forehead, and Dean would have been fixated on the line of his jaw if he hadn't just licked his lips.

Dean leaned forwards and kissed him.

It all slotted into place, then. It all made sense. How he couldn't make sense of that girl, Kate. How he couldn't go more than three hours without texting or calling Sam. Every minute they spent in the PT office, or with Dean on his knees in front of the couch, helping Sam do his stupid exercises.

How he'd always had Sam at his side. How Sam had worshiped him when they were growing up. How when Sam had been away at Stanford, Dean hadn't gone more than a few days without glancing around for him, for four fucking years. How Sam had always shied away from the girls Dean tried to push at him. How Dean never brought any of them back to the room.

The way Sam had trusted him, up to the end, even when Dean didn't trust himself.

The way Sam looked at him sometimes-- like he was the only thing on Earth worth paying attention to. The way Sam had always looked at him.

Sam's mouth opened on a startled gasp, and Dean took the chance, licking his way tentatively in. Sam groaned in his chest, broken and jagged, and both his hands closed on Dean's shoulders.

Then he was being shoved away, roughly, and he fell back on the carpet, dazed.

"Don't you fucking dare, Dean," Sam rumbled. "Don't you fuck with things you don't--"

Dean scrambled his way back upright and put his hand over Sam's mouth.

"I do though," he said. "I do."

He leaned in carefully, slowly, watching Sam's eyes the whole time. Sam was startled, but his face relaxed as Dean approached, confusion turning to hope.

 _Of course._

Dean removed his hand slowly, and replaced his fingers with his lips, kissing the corner of Sam's mouth, and then shifting over to kiss him more fully. Sam's hands, this time, curled in Dean's shirt and dragged him closer. Sam's eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth opened, and then Sam was dominating the kiss, grabbing hold of Dean's shirt and pulling him on top.

Dean landed awkwardly, catching himself on his elbows, and leaned over Sam, kissing him and kissing him, harder and deeper. Sam groaned again, and this time it was encouraging, enthusiastic.

"Fuck," Dean muttered. All the blood in Dean's body was gone from his brain, and his vision swam. "Sammy."

"Dean," Sam murmured, curling his fingers in Dean's shirt. He lifted his head off the ground, biting at Dean's mouth, and Dean pushed himself up long enough to swing a leg over Sam's hips. He sank down, settling in Sam's lap, and Sam growled and pushed up against him.

Fuck. Sam was hard, the line of his cock set right against Dean's ass, and Dean leaned forwards, careful of Sam's tender ribs, and put his mouth to the line of Sam's jaw. Sam had his head tilted back, eyes closed, and when Dean's lips touched his skin he moaned.

"Never thought you'd be so fuckin' loud," Dean murmured, licking his way down Sam's throat and sucking a mark at his pulse point.

"You learn new things," Sam said, and cupped the back of Dean's head with one of his huge hands. He tugged, and Dean sprawled, and they were back to square one, with Sam licking into Dean's mouth, tasting of liquor and pasta and Sam.

Dean smiled against his brother's mouth, kissing back, and cradled Sam's head in his palms. He shifted forwards a little, trying to take the pressure off Sam's legs, which were still propped awkwardly on the sofa at Dean's back. Sam pushed his hips up against Dean's ass, rubbing deliberately, and he took hold of Dean's hips in turn.

"Fuck," Dean hissed, as Sam's fingers dug into the muscle of his ass, holding him against Sam's lap, grinding him purposefully.

It didn't take very long. What with Sam dominating the kiss-- Dean could taste his desperation and relief, could feel the trembling of hands that belied a long-hidden secret-- and Sam's hard, solid body under Dean's, and Sam's perfect hands all over him, it wasn't long before he was jerking away from the kiss to throw his head back and gasp for breath.

Sam took advantage of the move and got his mouth on Dean's throat instead, and the twinge of pain was a perfect counterpoint to the rocking of his and Sam's hips. His orgasm was rushing on him hard and fast, and he gripped Sam's stupid, long hair tightly in his hands, like Sam was an anchor and he was adrift.

Then Sam said, "Dean, fuck, _yes,_ please," and Dean was coming, body shaking, cock spurting wet and hot in his jeans. Sam sucked in a gasp and Dean could feel his dick twitching against his own, and maybe the stickiness was his own mess, but the thought of Sam coming alongside him made Dean shudder all over again.

Sam was panting against Dean's temple when he came back to himself, and he still had his hands on Dean's ass. Dean's hands were sunk deep in Sam's hair, holding his head at the perfect angle for kissing, and so he did. He pressed his mouth to Sam's, half-open, half-way to a deep, dirty kiss already, and Sam took a moment to catch up. Dean felt oddly proud that he'd made his brother lose it like that.

Then Sam appeared to realize what had just happened, and he went still, breath deliberately slowing, face shuttering closed.

Dean wanted to shake him.

"Dean," Sam said, "we shouldn't-- we shouldn't have done that."

"Shut up," Dean growled. "How long?"

Sam shook his head, acknowledging the question even before he said, "How long what?"

"Sam," Dean said, putting on his best _don't you try shitting me: I'm your older brother_ voice, and then wondering if it were appropriate at this very moment.

"Years," Sam whispered, staring up at the ceiling again. His eyes were wet again, and Dean gaped at him.

"What?"

"Forever," Sam said. "For-fucking-ever, Dean."

"Jesus."

"Get off, Dean."

"Sammy, no, it's okay--"

"Dean, seriously--"

"Wait, listen, Sam." Dean kissed Sam's face, pressing kisses to his mouth and nose and cheeks, and Sam's face twisted in pain.

"No, Dean, shit, get off me for a fucking second-- my fucking leg--"

Dean scrambled to get off of him. His shorts were sticky and cold now, and his jeans chafed. Sam let out a breath of relief and reached out for Dean. His hand met Dean's shoulder, and Dean sagged on the floor.

"Sorry," Sam said, plucking at his pants and making a face, this time all bitchy and familiar. "Just-- hurt." He looked at Dean then, eyes wide and dark, still hazy from the alcohol, and then he was smiling. "Shit."

"How long is forever?" Dean asked, scooting closer. Sam's arm slid around his shoulders, and Dean allowed Sam to pull him in, smashing his face into the muscle of Sam's ridiculous bicep. He curled his arm over Sam's middle, settling awkwardly against Sam's side.

"Since I was fifteen," Sam said. "God, wow. What are you doing? C'mere."

Dean relaxed, marginally, wondering if cuddling with your brother was kosher at their age, especially if you'd just made out with that brother, and then dry-humped him until you came in your jeans like a teenager. Sam seemed to think so. He tilted his head and pressed Dean's forehead to his temple, his hair tickling Dean's face.

"You brought home Alison Turner," Sam said to the tiny living room, "and I was so fucking mad."

Dean didn't even remember her. He thought maybe she had had red hair, but he wasn't sure. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of liquor and sex and Sam, and didn't really care.

Sam did, apparently. His voice dropped again, and Dean wasn't sure whether he even knew he was still speaking aloud. "You went out to a movie with her, and I waited up for you- Dad was home, but he was passed out by nine or something. I guess I fell asleep, but I woke up when you came in. You fucked her on the couch, and I-" He laughed, soft and disbelieving, and after a second he whispered, "I wanted it to be me. Jesus."

Dean propped himself up on his elbow, and Sam blinked up at him. "I think it's time we got you to bed," he said as casually as he could. "I guess it's good we only have the one, huh?"

____spacer____

  
When Dean woke up in the morning, before the alarm went off, he was plastered to Sam's back, nose tucked against the top of Sam's spine, and Sam was snoring gently. Dean's hand was spread across his chest, like it had been before, when Dean had gotten a little too intimate with the back of Sam's neck. His hips were snug to Sam's ass, but they were both thankfully clean and mostly clothed.

Dean opened his eyes and listened to Sam breathe. He flexed his fingers and prodded very gently at Sam's ribs, feeling for the tender spots. Sam made a noise and shifted, but Dean knew that cracked ribs healed in a few months, and Sam hadn't complained about them recently.

"Dean?" Sam murmured, turning his head, and Dean nodded against his back. Sam sighed quietly and brought his hand up to rest over Dean's. He laced their fingers together for a moment, and Dean figured that Sam was feeling just as unsure about the whole situation as he was.

So he kissed the back of Sam's neck, the way he wanted to, and Sam made a little noise of pleased surprise. It went right through Dean, and his cock twitched in appreciation. He kissed Sam again, sucking gently, and Sam moaned a little louder.

"Okay?" Dean whispered, mouth still pressed against Sam's skin, and Sam nodded quickly.

"Please," he said.

"Yeah all right," Dean murmured, mostly to himself, and shifted to get a better angle. His dick, predictably hard and ready, dragged against Sam's ass, and Sam made an even better noise, somewhere between a squeak and a groan.

While he sucked on the back of Sam's shoulder like he shouldn't have before and definitely wanted to now, he slid his hand, still under Sam's own, down Sam's stomach and across his abs. Sam tilted his head forwards and shuddered, and Dean's fingertips touched the waist of his boxers.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, pushing his hand, and guiding him until Dean's fingers curled around the warm, hard bulge of Sam's cock.

"Shit," Dean muttered, hips pressing forwards automatically, and Sam let go as Dean's hand closed around him.

"Oh fuck," Sam replied, "Oh fuck, Dean."

Dean gave an experimental rub, fingers sliding, and felt the whole length of Sam's cock through his shorts. He dragged his fingers downwards, cupping Sam's balls, and at the same time rubbing the sensitive underside of his cock with his thumb. Sam moaned and pressed his hips back, and Dean slid one thigh forwards, spreading Sam's legs as he stroked him through his boxers. The head of Sam's cock was wet, sticky through the cotton, and Dean's fingers found their way through the slit in Sam's boxers.

Sam said, "Fuck," again, hushed. Dean's cock was hard, stiff and thick in his own shorts, and he let go of Sam to shove them down his thighs, and at the same time pull at Sam's 'til Sam got the picture and tried to lift his hips.

"Can't," Sam said, voice cracking, "Dean, I can't--"

"Shh," Dean murmured, kissing his neck again and managed to get Sam's shorts around his knees. It was awkward, with the cast, and Dean thought as soon as Sam was free of plaster he could fuck him—could press him down and lick him open, make him beg and cry with the pleasure-- could fill him up and feel him squeezing tight, his hands clenched in the sheets, his face buried in a pillow, gasping and chanting Dean's name. Jesus Christ.

Soon. _Soon._

Sam might've had other plans, though, and he was rubbing himself back on Dean's cock, sliding his good leg free of his shorts and back over Dean's thigh. Dean closed his hand around Sam's dick again and Sam shook, trying to push against Dean's cock and into Dean's hand at the same time.

"Steady," Dean murmured, "I gotcha." He lifted himself up onto one elbow to see Sam better, and Sam opened his eyes, gazing up at him, pupils blown dark and face pink with the heat.

Dean leaned down to kiss him, first the point of his jaw under his ear, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Sam tilted up to meet him, and Dean kissed him deeply as he applied himself rocking against Sam's ass, and fisting Sam's cock smoothly. Sam gasped against Dean's mouth, and Dean cupped the back of Sam's head with his other hand, turning him so he had a better angle to lick Sam's lips open and taste the inside of his mouth.

Sam reached up and fisted his hand in Dean's short hair, pulling Dean halfway on top of him, and Dean let go of his cock again to clamber his way over Sam's body so he could tuck himself in against Sam's front. Sam looked surprised and delighted, and still a little apprehensive, and Dean kissed him again and put his hand back around Sam's dick, in line with his own. He couldn't get his hand around them both all the way, but the friction between them was more than enough.

"Oh," Sam breathed, winding his arms around Dean's shoulder and waist and holding him tightly. They were close to the edge of the bed, but Sam had him securely, and Dean lifted his knee to slide his leg over Sam's good one, pressing his hips against Sam's.

It was awkward, and they didn't have enough space, but Dean thought it was about as perfect as last night had been. Sam was clutching at him, grabbing at his ass, fucking his hips up into Dean's fist, hard cock sliding against Dean's. Dean had one hand in Sam's hair, the other making a perfect tunnel through which he could enjoy the sight of the head of Sam's cock poking out, and Sam's tongue in his mouth.

"Want you to fuck me," Sam whispered, eyes closed tightly, and Dean bit at his lower lip.

"Yeah," he agreed, soothing the bite with his tongue. "When you're better."

Sam made a frustrated noise, and panted, and Dean grinned at him.

"Promise?" Sam asked, breathless. His face was flushing, and there was a line of sweat running down his temple to disappear behind his ear.

"You bet," Dean said, pressing the tip of his nose to Sam's cheek, hand working them both fast towards the peak. "You wanna do it on the couch first? Make your teenage dream come true?"

Sam shook his head, apparently beyond words, and his fingers were digging into the muscle of Dean's ass.

"Right here?" Dean went on. "In our bed?" He let out a breath, tilting Sam's head up so he could press a kiss to his throat. "Fuck, Sammy."

Sam whined and shivered and started to come, hot and wet over Dean's hand. The first pulse caught Dean by surprise, and the second had him racing towards orgasm, the feeling of Sam's come slicking his hand, Sam's cock jerking against his own.

Sam held him as he shuddered, dangerously close to the edge of the bed, and he fastened his mouth to Dean's throat, which made the end of the orgasm almost more intense than the beginning. Dean finally relaxed and pulled his hand from between them, and promptly wiped it on Sam's bare hip.

"Fucker," Sam muttered, loosening his grip for a split second, and Dean flailed and grabbed at him as he laughed.

"Scoot back," Dean said instead of coming up with a retort. "Fuck, what time is it? I have to go to work soon."

"Dean," Sam said, quietly.

"Yeah?" He looked up, and Sam's eyes were wide and fond, and the corner of Sam's mouth was turned up in a smile.

"Thanks for doing this."

"This? Seriously, dude? You're thanking me?"

"No," Sam snorted, "I mean. Working."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Shut up, princess." He sighed. "You know I wouldn't leave you to fend for yourself," he said, but what he meant was _You know I wouldn't leave you._

"I know," Sam said. Dean had to kiss him again, and he ended up being late for work.

____spacer____

  
Dr. Miller was thrilled to see how much progress Sam was making with his PT. Sam and Dean grinned at each other and congratulated themselves that Sam's ankle was more flexible, and his knee was getting stronger. Every day Dean got on the floor and helped Sam with the exercises--writing the alphabet in the air, stretching and flexing his joints--and more often than not it ended with Dean's hand down his pants and Sam's cock down his throat, both of them worked into a frenzy over nothing.

Sam's other leg was still in a state, but the thigh-high cast came off eventually, replaced by a knee-high cast and Sam fretted for a whole weekend about how thin and wasted his leg was. Dean kept catching him trying to stand up and shouting at him to sit the hell down, and Sam groused and glared and got distinctly more sullen about the situation, now that he was improving.

Typical.

Dean had to work hard to keep Sam's mood up, and it was tough that he also had to work to keep them in food and shelter and physical therapy, but it wasn't that much of a chore after all. Especially when he'd get home, and Sam would be waiting with food, and Sam and food went together so well.

Like the morning Dean had found Sam eating leftover pie out of the box for breakfast, and had licked all the blueberry off of his fingers for him. Sam had been squirming and panting and begging him by the time he was done, and Dean's only appropriate course of action was to go to his knees and let Sam put his sticky fingers in Dean's hair while he sucked him off.

He saw Kate again, by accident, at the library when he was picking up books off Sam's irritatingly long list. She was leaving as he was going in, and she caught him on the phone with Sam, bitching about the text books he had tucked in his elbow.

"Hey, Dean!" she said, waving and coming to a stop.

"Gimmie a sec," Dean muttered into the phone, and smiled sheepishly at her. "Kate. How are you?"

"Oh, you know," she replied. "Not bad."

"I'm sorry I never called you," he said, feeling awkward, knowing he was blushing. She shrugged.

"No harm, no foul," she said. "I mean," and it was her turn to blush, "I had um. I had a good time. But you're--well you're a one night stand kind of guy, aren't you."

Dean blinked.

"I figured that when I met you," she went on. "It's okay."

"Oh," Dean said.

"I'll see you later!" Kate said, and gave him a little wave as she walked away.

When Dean got back to the apartment, Sam was on his back on the living room floor, the wheelchair abandoned by the bedroom door. Dean paused at his feet.

"You trip?" he asked.

Sam grunted. "Bored."

"I brought books," Dean said.

"Fuck," Sam muttered, putting his hands over his face, his cut-off pinkie almost familiar now. "I have to get out of here, Dean."

Dean sat down on the couch and fidgeted with his watch. "What do you wanna do?"

Sam dropped his hands to his chest. "Take me out somewhere."

"Like where?" Dean scoffed. "The park?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Anywhere. Hell, we could go to the grocery store and I'd be happy."

"You are bored."

"I can't get down the stairs, Dean! What do you think I spend all my time doing?"

Dean leered. He could think of a few things.

"Knock it off, I do not." Sam paused, sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and the propped himself up on his elbows and looked up at Dean. "I talked to Bobby."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, eyebrow raised.

Sam nodded. "He wants to see us, thinks things are quiet now. We could go visit. How about that?"

"First it's 'Dean, take me to the park,' now it's 'Dean, take me to South Dakota'?"

"We've done worse," Sam said.

"I know," Dean replied, standing up and pacing across to the kitchen, picking up the junk mail that accumulated. "It fucking sucked."

Sam tilted his head back to stare at him upside down. "So?"

"So I like staying put, Sammy," Dean said. "I-- I like it here." With you. "Stuff's simple."

It was Sam's turn to raise his eyebrows into his hairline, giving Dean an incredulous look. "Simple."

"Yeah. I go to work, I come home. The salt line is for show. No one looking for us."

"You can fuck your brother," Sam said, mimicking Dean's tone. Dean made a face at him.

"Yeah," he said finally, defiant. "We're adults."

Sam gave him a strange little smile. "We're okay, right?"

Dean put the mail back on the counter and bent to untie his boots. Sam watched as he toed them off and crouched, and then crawled across the floor to him. Sam peered at him, upside down, and tilted his chin up just as Dean leaned down. Their mouths met, awkwardly at first, but Sam reached up and caught hold of Dean's shirt, and Dean tilted his head, and the kiss was slow and hot and perfect. Dean felt his heart clench, and he cupped Sam's face, holding him still while he took his time with the inside of Sam's mouth. Sam relaxed and opened up and _let_ him, and Dean heard himself make a little pleased noise as he kissed him deeper.

It was everything, right here, as he kissed Sam, and Sam kissed back. On the floor in a place they shared, just with each other: it wasn't a stop along the road, not like it was when they were kids. Their ugly weird furniture was theirs for as long as they wanted to stay, and the bed was theirs, and the fridge, and the chairs, and the floor. Dean pulled away from the kiss, smiling at Sam's hitched moan of disappointment, and he scooted around so he was facing Sam the right way, hovering over him like he had been the first night.

Sam was grinning up at him.

"Yeah," Dean said, "I think we're okay."

"You wanna get on the couch, make my teenage dreams come true?" Sam asked, trying for smart-ass but just sounding giddy.

"Nah," Dean said. "Got a perfectly good bed." He watched Sam's chest expand with a breath, and he levered himself to his feet and held out his hands. "C'mon cripple," he said. "Think you can manage a few steps there?"

Sam couldn't, but his effort was valiant. Dean finally dropped him on the bed, swearing, "Jesus God you're heavy," and Sam grinned sheepishly.

"I think I have to relearn that stuff," he said.

"Damn straight," Dean grumbled, rubbing at his lower back. "You also need to learn how to not ruin the mood."

Sam looked stricken.

Dean winked at him, and stripped off his shirt. "I'm kidding," he whispered, pressing his nose gently to the side of Sam's cheek and smiling as Sam's eyes closed in relief.

When he finally had Sam naked under him, except for the still cumbersome cast--even the heavy black boot could go, so long as Sam wasn't putting too much weight on it-- Dean let himself look at his brother, appraising. Sam was blushing faintly, trying to keep his hands still, but one of them was carding through Dean's hair, and the other was shifting nervously on Dean's back.

Dean didn't know why. They'd done this a dozen times already, and he knew exactly what noise Sam would make when he ducked his head and licked across one flat, tight nipple; what his skin would taste like at the hollow of his throat. Sam's hand tightened against his scalp, and Dean murmured and sucked a mark into the hard muscle of his chest, familiar with the give of his skin and the way the bruise blossomed easily.

He smoothed his free hand down Sam's belly, curled over his hip, touched his little finger to Sam's navel and then ran it back up to thumb at Sam's other nipple while he sucked the close one. Sam's back arched, and he groaned, "Dean, oh," when Dean bit him.

Dean slid one bare leg over Sam's thigh, pressing gently up towards Sam's groin, and Sam's legs slid apart to accommodate him. Sam clenched his hand again and dragged Dean up to kiss him, all messy eagerness.

"Whoa," Dean murmured, shifting his hips and sliding his cock against Sam's side. "Slow down. I don't want to hurt you."

"Jesus," Sam growled, biting at Dean's lower lip and grinding his dick against Dean's thigh. "You'd think we never fucked around before. I'm fine, Dean."

Dean pressed a kiss to his temple, and then trailed a line of kisses and sucking bites down his throat, worked for a few seconds at the mark already gracing his collarbone, and said, "Want you, Sammy. God, want you so bad."

"I'm here," Sam said, "I'm here. All yours."

It made Dean's heart race, pulse tripping and chest feeling hot and full. "No," he said, muffled against Sam's neck, "I want-- but your leg, and I don't--"

"Let me fuck you, then," Sam said, as if he'd read Dean's mind, the little fucker. Dean lifted his head, and couldn't quite keep the baffled look off his face.

"I'm older," he said, as if that were a good argument.

"What the-- shut up, Dean, I'm crippled." Sam grabbed him by the hip and hauled him bodily on top, spreading Dean's knees around his hips and pressing his cock up against Dean's ass. "Like this," he whispered, rocking his hips slowly and holding Dean against him. Dean could feel the hard ridge of Sam's dick sliding along the crack of his ass, and he was suddenly aching for it, body clenching at the thought of Sam filling him up, stretching him wide and shoving in; at the thought of riding Sam with his hands planted on Sam's chest and his ass against Sam's thighs.

"Okay, all right," Dean said, breathless, pushing himself upright and sitting back on Sam's hips. Sam groaned and his eyes rolled back, and Dean shifted easily along his cock. His own dick was stiff and thick and jutting out from his body, and Sam's hand slid up his leg and curled around it, fingers a gentle, torturous pressure. Sam swiped his thumb over the head, and Dean's fingers clenched on Sam's sides. The muscles under his hands were warm and hard and defined, and he tried to distract himself from Sam's hand on his cock, twisting and stroking and driving him up the wall, by finding the places where Sam was ticklish.

There weren't many. Sam just smirked at him as he dug Dean fingers into Sam's obliques and rubbed his thumb along the underside of Dean's head, and Dean couldn't stop the shudder that darted up his spine.

"C'mere," Sam said, tugging then, leading Dean by his cock to rise up on his knees and crawl up Sam's body.

"Oh, no," Dean said, but his dick said _oh, yes_. Sam huffed a breath and licked his lips, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Sam let go of his cock and slid his hands around Dean's hips instead, and Dean's cock was right there, right in Sam's face, jesus.

Sam's tongue licked around the head first, where his thumb had been, and Dean opened his eyes to fix on the shiny slide of pre-come across Sam's tongue and lips. He knew he was murmuring nonsense, and he put both hands on the wall above the bed. Sam smiled and pulled Dean's hips forwards, and his cock sank into Sam's mouth.

It was hot, impossibly wet, and Sam sucked in a breath and swallowed him down, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. Dean's fingers scrabbled against the wall, and he shook with trying to keep his hips steady, trying not to shove deeper into Sam's mouth. Sam dug in and pulled, opening his throat and working Dean flush against his face, nose brushing against Dean's stomach.

Then he was pushing Dean away, and Dean growled, but just before the tip of his cock left Sam's sweet mouth, Sam changed direction, and Dean got the picture. He rocked, not thrusting, just gently sliding his cock in and out of Sam's mouth, and Sam moaned.

Dean reached back behind him and found Sam hot and hard and waiting, and Sam made another muffled, surprised noise as Dean's fingers closed around his cock.

Sam was big-- something Dean was coming to appreciate more and more-- and the thought of him filling Dean up was both terrifying and unbelievably appealing. Sam's hips were rolling up into the air, pushing his thick cock into Dean's fist, and Sam's eyes were closed when Dean looked down again. He was sweating, and his face was pink with exertion and arousal, and Dean wanted to see him come.

Not yet, though. He yanked his hips back and Sam's eyes flew open in surprise. His mouth hung open, lips swollen and red, and Dean's cock leaked a fat drop of pre-come as he watched Sam pant.

There was lube in the dresser, stashed under Dean's socks, something he'd bought at some point in red-faced anticipation. He shifted away and leaned down to kiss Sam messily, tasting himself in Sam's mouth, before scrambling off and crossing the room.

His cock bobbed ridiculously against his stomach, and he rifled for a minute before turning back. Sam had his good knee spread wide and his other leg canted up, and his cock was disappearing in his fist as he stroked himself.

Dean's breath caught, and he was glad the bedroom was as tiny as it was, because it was only two steps to move before he could press the tube into Sam's hand as he knocked it away and sealed his mouth around Sam instead.

Sam shouted, body jerking, and let Dean suck him for a minute. Dean tried to open his throat to take Sam deep, but was distracted by Sam's hand in his hair, and he supplemented it with his hand around the thick base.

Sam was chanting, "Dean, Dean, Dean," and it took Dean a minute, and a few careful swallows of the salty mess of spit and pre-come in his mouth, to realize Sam was trying to get his attention.

"What," he growled, pulling off, and Sam's thumb rubbed across his lower lip.

"Dean," Sam said again, voice a low whine, and Dean crawled up his body to kiss him again. He licked into Sam's mouth, feeding him the taste of his cock and his want, and Sam moaned and slid a slippery hand between them.

The first touch of his fingers against Dean's hole was a shock-- cold and wet-- but Sam pressed firmly and his finger slid in easily, and he gave Dean a moment to adjust to the feeling.

It wasn't the first time he'd ever fucked a dude, but Sam's fingers were long and thick and seemed to know Dean's body inside and out, because the pads of his fingers slid right across Dean's prostate, at first gently, and then more insistently until Dean was shuddering uncontrollably.

He was biting his lip, teeth scraping across it as Sam added another finger, and Sam tilted his head up to pry it out of his mouth, soothing the bite with his own tongue. Two fingers was a little uncomfortable, but Dean adjusted quickly to the burn of fullness, and Sam's cock pressed insistently against his inner thigh, reminding him that he was about to take a whole lot more.

"Fuck," he muttered, "more, Sam. C'mon."

Sam bit his throat and pushed a third finger in alongside the other two, and Dean moaned at the stretch. Sam's fingers slid easily in and out, slick with lube, and Dean's cock leaked against Sam's stomach.

Then Sam was pulling away, ripping open a condom with his teeth and rolling it on. Dean heard his tight groan at the touch, and he lifted his hips up to speed the process. Sam lined the blunt head of his cock up with Dean's open hole, and Dean sank back, hissing.

It was better than Dean remembered: Sam rocking his hips up slowly and Dean grinding back, trying to ease Sam's way into him. Sam's fingers dug into his sides and sweat ran down Dean's back, pooling at the base of his spine.

Finally Dean's ass was flush against Sam's lap, and Sam immediately turned around and started pulling him up again, without letting him adjust. It was good, though, and the burn subsided quickly into an ache, and then into sparking pleasure and an unbelievable feeling of fullness, of being split apart, and Dean's soft underbelly exposed to his brother.

Sam kissed him, letting go of his sides to curl his hands in Dean's hair, around the back of his head. The kiss was sloppy and insistent, and Sam's rolling hips were pushing his cock deep into Dean over and over.

"Dean," Sam muttered against his mouth, "God, you feel good."

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean wasn't even sure his brain was connected to the words coming out of his mouth. "You like that?" He rocked his hips back harder, shoving Sam deep, watching the pleasure flicker across Sam's face.

Sam hissed, "Yes," fucking up into him, thick cock rubbing across his prostate at every thrust, and Dean moaned into his mouth. He could feel the tight, white pleasure building, coiling in his stomach and balls, and wanted more.

"Faster," he hissed. "Hard, Sam, hard."

"Shit," Sam said, letting go of his hair and going back to his hips, holding Dean in place while he hammered into him from below. Dean was convinced his ass would be bruised by tomorrow, with the beating he was taking from Sam's hipbones, but Sam slowed and stopped, gasping. Dean took over, planting his hands on either side of Sam's sides and riding him hard, and every thrust punched the breath out of Sam in harsh gasps.

He felt Sam start to come before he heard him hiss his name one more time, cock thickening and body tensing, eyes going dark. Then his eyes closed and he jerked, slamming into Dean, throat bared as he threw his head back. Sam apparently retained enough brain power to get his hand around Dean's cock again, and the touch set him off, shuddering all over and spurting over Sam's hand and stomach, with Sam still throbbing inside him and Sam's hot, broad hand on his back. He pressed his face against Sam's neck, biting down and moaning into his skin, and Sam jerked him through it until Sam's hand was slick and Dean was too sensitive to let him go on.

Dean panted for a second, against Sam's shoulder, and then he rolled off, landing beside Sam on the bed. The sheets were a mess and Sam's skin was shining with sweat and come.

Sam rolled away to deal with the condom, and then he was gathering Dean into his arms and silencing his token protests with his mouth.

"Shut up," Sam murmured, kissing below his ear.

"Fine," Dean said, and he lay dozing with his head on Sam's shoulder.

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When Sam's second cast came off, Dean spent fewer hours than he figured was necessary helping Sam flex his ankles and knees, and more time than he thought appropriate watching Sam hobble around the apartment on his crutches and his awkward boots while Sam waved away help and yelled at him if he tried to be sneaky about it.

But Sam got better. Now that he could put weight on his legs and feet he was more mobile, and he made Dean take him out to the bar, or to the shop, or to the store. There, he would do more shuffling and hobbling and crutching around while Dean tried to ignore the looks of mingled pity and amusement of anyone who saw them.

It certainly made the sex easier. Sam wasn't yet up to extended periods of time on his knees, but Dean could get Sam's ankles at his ears without a lot of trouble, and he really did like sitting on Sam's lap on the mangy sofa.

Sam's recovery was slow but steady, and every day he was stronger and happier, gaining weight back, walking farther without help. Dean stopped working at the bar and went full time at the auto shop, but Sam took on bookkeeping for Jane Alice and they stayed in her good graces. The two meager incomes kept them comfortably warm through the winter, and the radiators rattled and squeaked all night, adding a predictable soundtrack to their lives.

Eventually Sam ditched the boots entirely and stopped going to PT, but Dean stayed on his ass about doing the exercises.

One morning while Dean was reading the paper, checking the obits out of a long-ingrained habit he couldn't shake, he paused. Three hikers gone missing in one month, all in the same area of the national park. The authorities were calling them unfortunate accidents, but the timing was too precise: every ten days.

He had a pen in his hand before he knew it, and he was halfway through circling the articles when he stopped.

Sam was still asleep, lying naked and worn out in their bed, his throat and shoulders dark with marks the exact size and shape of Dean's mouth.

Dean snuck a look at the bedroom door, half-open, and could see the curve of Sam's shoulder. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket.

"It's Dean," he said when Bobby picked up. "I think I got something over in the Tetons."

"Sure sounds like it," Bobby said when he'd finished explaining the pattern. "I don't know what, but it might be worth taking a look. You boys going?"

Dean paused, and then he said, "I don't think so."

Bobby was quiet for a while. "I know you took some time off--"

"Like six months, Bobby."

"Right." Bobby sighed, and Dean could hear him scratching his head. "So, you think you're not coming back to the business?"

"Not right now," Dean said. Sam shifted and rolled onto his stomach, tucking his head down in his arms. The long line of his back was bare and golden in the morning sun.

Bobby said, "I know you were saying you didn't want to, when you came out here."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I think we deserve a break."

Bobby snorted.

"A longer break," Dean said. "Shut up, Bobby."

"All right," Bobby said. "I'll make some calls, find someone to take it."

"Thanks."

"Don't get into trouble, y'hear?"

"Yes sir," Dean said, grinning.

"Smartass," Bobby grumbled, but when he hung up he said, "Take care, Dean. Sam too."

Dean closed his phone and threw the paper out. Sam would probably bitch about it, but right now Dean didn't care. He eased open the bedroom door and crossed to the side of the bed. Sam blinked up at him from the pile of blankets.

"'Sup?" he said, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. His missing little finger moved along with the others, as if it weren't quite aware that it was gone.

"Nothin'," Dean said, sliding in beside him and pulling the blanket out of his tight grip to wrap it around both of them. Sam murmured and tucked his head under Dean's chin, and Dean ran his hand through Sam's hair. "Nothin' at all."

 **END**

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[Art and Soundtrack](http://anyothergirl415.livejournal.com/367454.html?format=light)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["This is the Place" timestamp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/298419) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo)
  * [Three Minor Details (This is the Place)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/299371) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo)




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